The Black Angel
by obliviousbushtit
Summary: The village hiccup had only ever asked for three things from his miserable, mundane life. One – that he wouldn't be eaten by a dragon. Two – that he lived free of any liability. And three – that he would change. To his surprise, life complied. Many would agree, however, that it may have taken his third request one step too far...
1. Succulent Taste

I quite like the taste of the ocean.

It tastes of salt and a tinge of forlornness.

The lip of the ocean rises above the sands, only to fall within itself again. The tranquil waves soothingly massage my cheek.

There floats within its foams - a touch that echoes the bare hints of a whisper; that everything's going to be okay.

A mother tending to and calming her babe, scaring the monsters away after a bad, bad dream. A mother that one could only ever wish of having.

It was no later than a second that the ocean drove back, allowing me to revel at a new set of grains, eager to greet me - less than usual, this time.

How... underwhelming.

It was only a matter of time before the ocean comes to collect them again, letting me revel in front of me another cohort.

A smell sneaks into my nose, refreshing and gorgeous.

Amazing, the ocean...

It's ample opportunities.

Slowly, I crane my head to the side, heeding the ocean's every whim.

"Counting all of us now, are we?"

I flinch, shattering my enchanted gaze of the blue.

The grains. The gods-damned grains.

Their eyes eagle me, distaste in their tone.

"Gods, Hiccup," they all jeer, scorn present their rough, pale faces - apoplectic and disgusted. "Have you sunk rock-bottom."

Meekly, I could only ever reply to them: "Does it l-look like I-I have a-anything better to d-do?"

...

Wait...

What?

I audibly sigh, realisation soon dawning upon my pathetic excuse for a brain with the force of a hurricane debris.

By Odin's grace, help me, I am anthropomorphising sand.

I decide to agree with the sand's sentiments, as degrading as it was.

The ropes around my wrists are getting looser now; the wear and tear, gnawing away at the material.

It still stubbornly bears my arms, keeping them firm and rigid, limiting any semblance of mobility, as was intended; though, the tightness thankfully is not as tight as the first few minutes were.

Blood struggled to flow then.

Gods know what would happen if that were still the case.

 _Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, an amputee._

The mere thought gets under my skin. I just hope it doesn't get to my left hand when that happens.

However, knowing my luck, it will happen sooner than I expect. If only I had the energy to let out a chuckle.

It is getting darker now.

The once blue sky, now mixing with a comforting yet oddly melancholic hue of yellow. A little white starts to form from my ragged breath.

I can't feel my toes.

The foundations of the ropes that bond my legs and hands slowly shrouds itself into the depths of the rising waves.

The only part They didn't constrict was my neck.

It was so that I turn and stare hopelessly at Them as They skip away, coldly, methodically, back towards the comfort of home.

To relish in my suffering; to draw mental images in Their minds of their victim staring at the floorboards that connect the beach to the village.

To swim gleefully in the thought of my mental fortitude shattering to pieces as they walk slowly away... to the taste of freedom.

They angled my head facing the pathway to the village, after all.

 _Figures._

Exploiting the freedom to my neck, I savour what little light there is left to marvel at the vast blue.

The sheer wonder of the never-ending mass presents before me, as if I am, for once, worth some semblance of existence.

I hear it calling to me.

Beckoning, begging me to come forth.

To become one with its foams.

To paddle in eternal bliss within its deepest depths.

To feel like I worth something.

To consume me...

...

No. No.

Gods.

Never think like that again Hiccup. Never.

But...

I just feel so famished.

So parched.

So utterly drained.

The fact that the waning thought of death is slowly controlling me as I tire... it makes me break a cold sweat.

I... I can take Snotlout's harassing.

I can take the petty punches.

I can take the fact I am the worst Viking on the island, if not the world. All of that never bothered me.

And yet, being stranded here. All alone.

Against my will.

At the mercy of the tides.

With all the time in the world for myself.

To contemplate my existence.

To ponder.

All without any exertion of physical violence done to me...

That breaks me.

I shudder.

A subtle, weak colour of orange soon materialise from the frailty floorboards. Frenzied, frantic breaths were all my hearing could muster.

The colour reverberates with the ground. Somebody is heading my direction.

But I can't be bothered.

I am just...

Tired.

Tired and numb and...

Hysterical.

My head feels like the inner workings of a clockwork, slowly screeching to a halt as its surface soon wears.

I cannot hear the breathing now. Only soft, slowly silencing beats with no substance fill the void.

All I could think about now are the bright, shimmering stars in front of me. They are calling out to me.

Calling out by name. Soon, they got louder. More bombastic.

More eloquently dramatic.

Then, as a reward for my patience, the star-dotted sky opens up for me a majestic panorama in spectacular, awning wonder. Effortlessly, it grabs hold of my limp body.

Almost as gracefully as a swan.

It slowly, slowly lifts me into its never-ending abyss.

Where hopes and dreams may perish.

I let it.

* * *

 **A/N: There's a lot of build-up in this story towards the eventual Hiccup/Night Fury TF.**

 **If you are new, give the story a shot! If you want, you can follow or even review this fic - any form of support motivates me to write! You may never know - you may like it.**


	2. Void

**_Some of you may think that this is incredibly polarizing. I agree! Here's the context:_**

 ** _(a) This fic takes place before the events of the first movie._**

 ** _(b) This Hiccup is much more cynical than depicted in the movie._**

 ** _(c) It will use Book!Fishlegs, so Hiccup and Fish are close friends._**

 ** _(d) This will take a lot of liberties with Berk's history, so it will divert from canon._**

 ** _(e) Hiccup was tied down on the beach by Snotlout and his 'friends' in the first chapter._**

 ** _(f) Snotlout is much more violent in this story._**

 ** _I think that covers it. If you have any questions, PM or review!_**

* * *

It is standing before me.

That's as apt of a description I can give the elusive 'it'. Playing with its food on the plate, before the lunge.

Something or someone in front of me, marching. Something sentient. Something sick.

It doesn't help my vision is working against me too.

And I am worried.

Why?

Because, from my point of view, it looks like a black void - not a fracture cracks through its depths of never-ending.

Look at it long enough, and you will see yourself go mad. However, underneath all of that tenor, lies a peculiar figure.

A figure that was sculptured to look as if it is something sentient.

Animalistic.

And somewhat human.

Well, whatever it is, it isn't giving me any indication of its physical stature whatsoever.

It is coming towards me, though.

 _That_ , I can make out in my current situation.

It stalks like a predator before pouncing on its prey - strands of saliva, hanging like a spider web in its jaws; every step, every move, and the ground trembles under its weight.

My vision starts to clear a bit - clearer enough just to make out...

...

Sorely wished it hadn't cleared, now.

Oh, gods.

It looks like what Hel would look like if it manifested itself into its own body.

It ticks all of the boxes.

Jet black skin.

Eye slits as thin as the sharp end of a sword.

Teeth in rows as hellish and plentiful as all of Berk's population combined. _Draconic..._

 ** _Poor thing..._** it starts.

I feel a lump in my throat. My beating hearts.

 ** _Don't worry,_** its voice booms. It has instances of a motherly tone - bemused and understanding, like how a mother would talk to her offspring.

However, at the same time, it would make a chillingly accurate representation of how Freyja herself would speak. **_I will grant what you have wished for your entire life. You just have to trust me. I'll make the pain go away. In time. You'll understand._**

And with that, it sinks itself within me.

Consuming me utterly and completely.

Whole.


	3. A Light in the Darkness

Warmth.

The feeling on my cheek. Entrancing. Seducing.

No longer do I sense the sea's presence, its motherly embrace. On my face. On my lips.

No longer do I taste the sea. Only a hollow, empty feeling resides.

Bitterness resides.

My eyes, like how a red curtain would lift, open, albeit rather lazily.

An oak ceiling greets my well-met visage.

Brown. Drab. Worn. Dull.

The intruding orange light coming from the left of my eye throws me off the sight quite a bit. My neck, struggling, strains to the source.

A night desk presents itself before me.

Not just any night desk, mind you.

It is mine.

On top of its surface is a revolting sight. It is strewn with scribbled paper - concepts and schematics I made that never made it to fruition because it was either too frivolous, or simply too costly.

An accursed no-mans-land, lain with traps. Barren of safety.

In the middle of the mess, laid a candle and its holder.

Dad probably put it there haphazardly because I simply was not worth his time and effort - which in all fairness, was understandable enough.

I am the human equivalent of a participation award, after all.

Gods, do my arms strain after being held down for so long. Groggily, I rub my eyes as I slowly, slowly sit up.

What felt like sharp prickles of pain pierces the poise of my back.

 _Augh, shite!_ A hand and a reactionary move later, and I find myself massaging the afflicted area.

Having laid down so long - it must have worn my fishbone of a body right out. Out of curiosity and an eagerness to soothe, my hand traces alongside its course surface. Pockets of skin and lines of flesh greet my touch, and, in strong reluctance, my conscience greets back.

By Odin's beard, did Snotlout do a number on me with that whip of his.

Bah. Never mind that.

Physical stuff, I can shrug it off well enough.

It is all superficial abuse, and knowing my age, I can recover moderately quick. It is temporary.

Ill verbal harassment, however...

 _That,_ breaks me.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but one negative comment can sucker punch my pathetic excuse for self-esteem off this very existence.

I think that is how the saying goes, anyway.

I passive-aggressively give in to my body's request for lying down again.

And as I do, pain trickles down my skull, eventually cascading in a blinding explosion of pure agony.

I jolt high in response.

 _Agh, gods!_

Holy moly, the neck too?

 _"Every body part is sore, idiot."_

I reply solemnly to my conscience. "Got it."

My naked palm finds itself soothing the muscles to rest.

...

You know,

You'd think that the world would give me some ample time.

To recover.

But, Odin seems to deem not.

For, at that deeply, intimate and _personal_ moment with myself,

Dad decides to barge into my room.

I jump with a start. I swear it is never at the best of times, only ever always at the worst of times...

"Hiccup."

A _shlick,_ and an agonising douse of lost self-esteem. And I am emotionally floored.

 _Yikes._

I was stabbed rather violently by his tone. It accentuates only _disappointment._

I can almost feel it dance around the room.

Moments fly, and I struggle to gouge out of my system any formulated sentences. Apologies. Any.

Nothing.

No,

What instead fills the void instead, is stuttering. Ladies and gentlemen, I proudly present to you, my signature catchphrase:

 _"Umm..."_

 _..._

Oh, don't give me that thought.

Snotlout smiled in response that one time before he made a Warhammer out of my head against The Great Hall's... halls. Clearly, that doesn't resonate with the great Stoick. In actuality, he is one of the few that finds it quite disheartening.

Actually, no, no. Scratch that.

He's a bit more than just disheartened.

He's choking.

Choking on despair so raw _you_ can feel it too.

"Son..." he blurts. "Oh, son..."

His eyes wander. To the ground, then to me. They flow overwhelmingly with lost and the sense of despair.

He runs his hand down his face. He frees his hand from it.

Open, now. Its calloused gaze taunts me.

Ah,

I see.

He is going to wallop my face a lesson. For being so gods-damned _useless_.

I close my eyes, acceptance flowing within me.

And then...

...

Nothing.

Nothing but the feeling of emptiness.

But instead.

What escapes his mouth hurts me more than everything else.

"What am I ever going to do with _you."_

The words cut like an obsidian sword.

Gods.

He is trying to keep it together.

He fails. Unanimously.

All.

Because.

Of.

Me.

I feel like the biggest stain of shit to ever grace the soil of this world right now.

Actually, I am the biggest stain of shit to ever grace the soil of this world right now.

Actually, I am obligated to be the biggest stain of shit to ever grace the soil of this world right now.

To be the future heir of Berk's most successful chief in recent memory can weigh down on people, quite a lot.

None of that anxiety I am going through really is comparable to what Dad may be experiencing.

To have the chief witness the complete embodiment of incompetence in the form of his son can be a torturous, traumatic experience.

To have the chief witness this complete wimp of a son, a son that winces even at the slightest negative conviction spoken to him because he is that dense is a torturous, traumatic experience.

So.

Is it so shocking to say that his response was completely predictable? Plausible?

For me?

Then.

Why does it all still hurt so gods-damned _much?_

Life's greatest question, one that may never be answered.

One that will never be answered.

Dad sighs. Exasperated.

"Food's downstairs if you're hungry."

And, just like that, he walks out.

He leaves me to my miserable existence.

Good gods.

The next couple of days are going to be simply _glorious._

The sounds of planks creak as I trudge through the monotony of morning, climbing achingly down the steps that lead from sanctuary to the real world.

A fist is formed to wipe the blur that hinders my sight. A crack of the back and good yawn later, I proceed.

Then, something that I hear stops me in my tracks.

Is that...

Weeping?

My ears draw nearer to the source.

 _There_.

In the kitchen.

I climb down to see what exactly is going...

 _Dad_. On.

Oh, no.

Dad... dad is bawling on the kitchen table. "Oh, Gods. Oh..."

He chokes, grasping a feathered necklace. _Mother's necklace._

"I..." he whimpers. "I am so sorry, Valka..."

The source of his sadness... is it about me?

"I failed you. I failed to raise our son..."

Dad...

"It's my fault... it's all my fault... I should have been around more... I should have been a father. Why did I ignore him? Why...?"

His two elbows thump the dining table, leaving me breathless for blame.

"Why?"


	4. Little Paradise

Some inconceivable part of me thought it'd be a good idea that, since I am not necessarily doing anything useful in the meanwhile, I fumble with my charcoal stick.

If you were there, you'd mistaken me for some overgrown toddler.

Oh.

Wait.

As an attempt to mask my reaction to this instance of self-realisation, I pull my knees up to my chest. An infertile effort. Barren.

I sigh, looking down.

The abused paper on my lap lays dormant, flaccid. It basks in the glory of the morning sun, hoping that one day its tyrannous owner would stop robbing it away of its beige skin.

You know, having tools such as these... they help when you'd want to have a sure-fire way of remembering your thoughts for the future.

In physical form.

The scribes of Rome never cease to amaze me with what inventions they come up with.

Apparently, their techniques are _so_ advanced that it would even make Gothi scratch her head.

At least, that's what Dad tells me where he got the instruments from. He says it is made using an ancient remedy.

Gods, obviously.

He is lying.

It is easy to produce these, given the right tools. Just burn some wood, put that burnt wood in a cloth, wrap it around with a neat, tidy bow, then.

Ta-da.

He tells me we are on limited supply of these sort of wooden tools, but I can see through the lines.

It is a lie, constructed and hammered into perfect shape – but even things considered flawless have their scars show as time walks by, indifferent.

And, for the most part, I understand. But why? Why do I sympathise? Well.

A concerned chief, and a son on the completely opposite side of the spectrum.

Put two and two together, and…

Well.

He just doesn't want the future chief of Berk, a clan who prides themselves on military and physical prowess, to be little more than a wimp who fantasizes about the idea of literature.

If so, then it would be a barefaced oxymoron.

So, for now, I will work with what he has given me. A ration of sorts.

Three pieces of paper and one charcoal stick a week.

I mean, I could produce some of my own. They should be relatively simple enough to make. However.

I want Dad to have a little less disappointment in me whenever we catch sight of each other. For him.

For me.

I mean, to confirm my suspicions, he makes it a point to tell me that the Roman traders only come once in two years every time I request for some more paper.

I eat the papers up within two days, you see.

How I love poems and the meanings they convey.

How I love logical mathematics and the potential they provide.

How I love fictional stories and the wonderful tales they can tell.

The short yet blissful getaways they provide underneath the dark, unforgiving cover of the real world. One that destroys you. Consumes you. Until you are never really whole again.

I never could contain my excitement whenever the Romans make their routine trip to Berk, come to think of it.

The books they bring are rather profound. Enlightening.

So, there I was.

With my mathematics book in hand.

Lying on my tiny paradise close to shore, drawing schematics of projects too ambitious for my own good.

So far, I have made... sixteen concepts, each purpose varying.

One involves the use of a drill to plant seeds more efficiently and one that is a sort of one-way pipe that can, through a valve, absorb water from a source from one end, and let water flow to the user's end. I don't expect these theories to be put into practicality, though. I never do.

I look to the direction of the docks.

The docks are quite empty during the deep winter, only a few ships from neighbouring clans come to visit. Marriage arrangements make up the bulk of the visits, and rarely are the ships the trading sort.

Clans never barter with each other, after all.

Only those down South do. And, if you have had an attentive mind, you would notice that there _is_ no Southern trade at the moment.

Why?

My answer to that is simple: Southerners simply hate the winter here.

A hate, of which, is understandable. Their complexion and body mass eerily resemble mine, after all.

It also doesn't help that their knowledge of the North only surfaced twenty years ago, so they wouldn't have had time to familiarise themselves with the North anyway.

My eyes linger around more, procrastinating from looking below. It was right then when I catch sight of it.

A ship.

Not just any old one though.

This one has markings. Of the Peacables.

Now, that in of itself doesn't seem all too noteworthy, and I would wholeheartedly agree. It is just…

their symbol at the side of the ship.

It looks _almost_ too similar to the Bog-Buglars'. I would even wager that the Peacables ripped it off unapologetically. I mean, it is not like the clan I mentioned earlier is not going to get all too cooked up at this indirect attempt of thievery.

The clans don't see them around these parts anymore. Haven't been doing so for the past…

Gods, I don't even know.

Four years, give or take?

I don't know.

Oh, this just makes me sad. I miss Camicazi's company.

Suddenly, the sounds of a bronze bell ring across the isle. It penetrates through every crevice, every nook and cranny, every little paradise...

Then, a reminder floats in my head.

The weekly meeting.

Ah, crap.

Quickly, I pack up my instruments, and, with all the pathetic strength I could muster, I run towards the Great Hall. An outsider would have assumed that I was jogging.

By Odin's beard, do I suck at physical stuff.


	5. Mock

The clouds radiate a grim greyness onto the entrance of the Great Hall. The air is shrouded, dank. It smells of lingering dread. The structure surrounding me is ancient, its pet statues, all but gazing. Their demonic eyes follow me as I creep. Some of them start having chit-chats behind my back.

"Hiccup is a lost cause," they jeer to no one in particular. "His existence serves no one. He is a failure of a Viking. He is vermin. A vulture. A nuisance. A pest. But, above all, a selfish prick whose only goal is to serve and gawk about how sorry he is for himself, to himself."

"He _is_ useless."

I try to suppress their bile. Oh, how hard I try.

It doesn't work.

Because, deep down. Down within the twisting and turning corridors of my mind.

I know. They are right.

A walk turns into a sprint, and the temptation to scream my heart out grows ever more enticing.


	6. Roundtable

I am needed.

That's funny.

Normally, I never am.

Eventually, I never will be. I am to sit next to my father at the Great Hall, and be an attentive audience to his... show.

That's the arrangement, anyway. He wants me to observe how he talks, how he persuades, how he leads his people to have a positive mindset even in the darkest of hours.

He wants me to learn.

Yyyeah, I am not learning much from these meetings, if at all. I am trying, but it can't be helped.

I am the quiet type.

Imagine: a leader who is an utter coward. The scaredy-cat part never bodes well together with leading figures. Just like how I never bode well with Dad.

Dad runs his hand down his forest-like beard.

"Porkmince, you know the drill. Status of the rationing?"

"Fine, sire. Few rotting meats here an' there, but otherwise, nothing really ta worry about," Mince replies. "I can assure you, the village willna perish a' starvation any time soon."

Dad was about to say something along the lines of "good" before Mince cuts in.

"However," his tone is darker now, almost speculative. "Winter rations look less thahn last year, and even less thahn the year before it. If I were you, lad, I'd tread carefully. If current trends are anything to go by, and well, I'd hate ta ruin your mood Stoick, but... when push comes to shove, we're going ta need ta raise the quota for the fishing game. No offense ta you, Bernard."

"None taken," the fisherman staunchly replies, making a 'shoo' motion with his hand in understanding.

"But," Bernard pauses. "If that does happen, we have a little predicament. My men may have to work double time. Rarely do they get any shut-eye cause of the waves and all that, and they are already stretched thin as it is. Fish doesn't drop from the sky. Shite... if the situation really is that serious..."

He ponders in thought.

For the first time in a long time, the hall stood in silence.

If circumstances were different, there would be a few small murmurs in the crowd, a small discussion among Vikings, but not one sound came from the Vikings this midday.

They know, deep down in their hearts, that the situation is grave.

They want to give some room for Bernard to think.

"Ah," he finally says in his light bulb moment, snapping his fingers. "Perhaps, Stoick, the Hunters should have a boost in numbe—"

"Bah," Dad spits, interrupting Bernard. "Are you joking? The problem doesn't lie in the lack of men going hunting, it is the lack of animals to hunt. The number of wildlife on the isle is deplorable, to which forefathers also have noted down. Berk is dependent on seafood. Only once in a blue moon that we see anything remotely resembling sufficient game. We'd be lucky to carry home just one deer. Coming home anything more would be as rare of a phenomenon as spotting trolls! And I'm sure all of you don't want any rabbit meat on their plates? Besides, deer tastes gods-awful."

The hall shares his sentiments wholeheartedly, including Bernard.

Dad glances to me, deep in thought.

What is he thinking?

"Anyhow. The fish need to come in larger droves next time if the dragon attacks become worse, right? The answer to that is new blood. New blood in the fishing crew. It is high time too. The hair on the crew is starting to fall off anyway. Not to discredit their work, of course."

He pauses to collect himself, then continues.

"Our young are to induct themselves into a new fishing crew, first come spring. The future generation of the Berkians must be steadfast in their decisions by experiencing firsthand hard labour, ensuring they won't set this tribe's future ablaze. The trip would be a test of their capabilities, it is for our peace of mind, really."

Dad then cocks his head into my line of sight, a well-meaning smile on his face forming. _Oh. No._

Is he implying what I think he's implying?

I gulp.

"Hiccup, future chief of the Hooligan Tribe, you are to be...

I wince as I slowly but painfully die inside.

their master and commander."

My eyes flicker of dismay. My jaws stutter. What remaining enthusiasm I had for the day drops dead on the ground like a ragdoll.

Surely, he knows how awfully weak I am. I can't even lift a single _net_.

I know he means well. I know he's sort of trying.

The split-second decision wasn't just to supply Berk with more supplies for the winter rationing, it wasn't just to teach the young generation the hardships of work on the waters either.

It was for me.

Me and my betraying physique. Me and my betraying confidence. Me and my betraying me.

He wants me to prepare for the murky future I don't even know I would be able to see. Sometimes, being heir to the chief of a tribe can feel like a curse.

I wanted to say something to him so, so badly. To protest. To accentuate how *shit* of an idea this is, through and through.

I don't, though.

The conversation would never go anywhere.


	7. White Lie

"And... down goes the hammer!"

Whether it's metal against metal, steel against steel, the result's the same. Neon yellow sparks fly around the general vicinity, with almost guaranteed chances that they would hit the blacksmith working on the metal.

I try to keep some distance whenever this happens in my line of work. I refuse to smith weapons for that exact reason.

When I work the wheel, at least I can control where the sparks go, but when hammering?

Ney.

It is a roll of the dice kind of action.

So, I help sharpen the weapons whenever I can to compensate. Nobody can tell me otherwise. Hel, I am not here for the weapons, I am here to make contraptions. Inventions.

 _'Too ambitious',_ you say. Before you say anything else, I know. I acknowledge it.

I just can't help myself.

"See?" the blacksmith gesturing to me smiles. "Simple as tha!"

"You know full well I can't lift things two thirds my own body weight."

"I know. Just preparing ye for the near future," he fatalistically states, gesturing his hands to my general direction.

I was about to comment something snarky before he grasps, quite roughly, my limp arm, inspecting it. And it hurt. Bad. "Look at all of that... untapped potential in those arms!"

I scream and shout for all that's left of me. "Gobbergobbergobber please must you really...!"

"Ah," he replies in realisation, letting go. "Sorry, lass. I forgot you are quite the fragile fello."

"Thank you for rubbing that in."

"I like to be blunt."

Satisfied with his colourful bantering, Gobber turns back to his workstation, checking whether the iron is hot enough to meddle with - assembling some war axes for the village as a side activity.

I myself turn to my desk to pick up where I had left off: the final components needed to create a dragon-trapping bola launcher. And if you know me, I wouldn't be able to operate a darn thing.

And for all intents and purposes, I am certainly not building this thing for myself.

I am building it for the village, you see. Catch sight of this one pesky dragon that won't just touch the ground? Well, do I have just the solution for you!

Ha!

Ha.

Well, at least I am contributing _somehow_.

The building pieces of the schematics have just enough leeway for Gobber or any other Viking that takes up smithing to use different materials to construct.

I know how... incredibly stingy they can be with their materials when they experiment with new things, maybe rightfully so.

Thus, in the very possible event that they use rotten wood to build it, I account for that.

I intend to give this to Gobber after I am done.

So, help me.

Gobber turns to me with an open mouth at the ready.

"Don't know why you would want to waste time on something that even you aren't so sure of actually working, but hey," he says, giving a shrug. "Won't judge."

Oh, how encouraging.

Thanks, Gobber.

He just, unknowingly, unravelled and disproved a month's worth of work with one short, sweet statement, filled to the brim with logic.

Ugh.

I hate it when he's right.

I am being way too naïve for my own good.

As if I couldn't be more useless than I already am.

I pack up.

And, in the process of doing so, Gobber interrupts me by saying something that makes me stop whatever I was doing altogether. No, not by the content of the formulated sentence, but by the way he says it.

With a tone of genuine... _care_.

"Hiccup, now just what are ya doing?"

A mix of sympathy and authority.

Like how a father would talk to his son.

Gobber is the closest person I would get to resembling any real father figure, come to think of it. Dad was always doing chief stuff.

I reply back with a lie even the most gullible of people would see through. "It's nothing."

He puts his figure between me and my objective, raising an eyebrow.

I go left, he goes right. I go right, he goes left.

What is his problem, exactly?

He folds his arms.

"Can you believe the audacity of the boy? If I were any other adult, I'd give you a nice spank on the bottom for dismissing the numerous pleas of a superior, but luckily for you, I am not one of those superiors."

"Numerous? Pleas?"

"Ack. You get my point. Now, tell me. What's been bothering you?"

"It's just..." I start, slouching my shoulders a bit. "I've been considering what you said."

"About wha?"

"My bola launcher."

"Ah. Yes. That one. Continue."

I heave my torso up with great effort, subsequently sighing, then slouching again.

"I... completely share with your sentiments."

"Ya share with my what now?" he questions. "Since when did I ever sway you from completing your contraption?"

"Umm... from the conversation just before?"

"I can't say that I remember, admittedly. But, in the very unlikely event I did say tha, Hiccup," he says as his hands rest on his hips. "I am sorry. Words just slip out of me mouth, and it usually turns to a 'have at you' kind of thin'."

He closes in, wanting me to hear this.

"Hiccup, ya should na let the words of others so easily manipulate or control whatever are ya thinking. It is Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third's opinion, not... Bucket's for Thor's sake. If somebody chats shite about what ya are doing, retaliate!"

He motions his arms as if slapping at the empty air. "A good ol' spanking in return. That's what I used to do, anyway."

He seriously overestimates my capabilities as a person.

"Easy for you to say," I start. "Given my current physical stature, Gobber, surely you couldn't expect anything more than from what's on the surface?"

"Did I say anything about the need to be fit- along the lines actually nevermind- but—ah! Ya get the point! If ya let the words of others get to ye so easily, ya may as well be serving yourself on a silver platter. Ya may not know it, but ya have real value here in the village."

HAH! Likely story.

"You know, if you were competing for stand-up comedy right now you'd win the grand prize," I flatly gesture, pointing a finger at him.

"Hiccup, lad, I am serious!"

"Wasn't I titled Hiccup the Useless by the entire village, at one point?"

"Ack, that may be true, but I digress. Not once in my time in servitude to Berk had I ever had an apprentice as bright as you. You trudge through every single problem I present with tangible ways to solve... all of 'em!"

I think I need to clear my ears again.

Did I hear right?

Before I can ponder more, he continues.

"Look, where I am getting at is... ya don't need to follow the status quo of the Viking code and be useful. You can be yourself, Hiccup! Ya don't have lie to yourself and be someone that just isn't you. You're unique, you're smart, you're you, and you are useful to the village in your own way. Before you came along, the weapons really lacked polish. You make them shine. And that's what matters to me, the whole thing about your expendability and your personality. True enough, that certain Vikings that have the openness of my viewpoints, but, to me, that's what really counts. The insults you receive? Nothing but empty threats said by the lowest common denominator. Ya are better than that. Better than them. You are the best apprentice I had had the pleasure of working with by a mile, that is for sure."

"Hah!" he bellows. "Not even ol' Thuggory could best you, rest his soul!"

I am taken aback.

That rant is the most elongated, flattering words of encouragement I have heard in the entirety of my life. Am I really worth that much to Gobber?

"And..." he interjects my thoughts. "I dunno where I'd be without ye."

His eyes start to wander, as if guilty of a crime he had committed.

"That's... how much you mean to me. I can't say for the others, but, that's me."

No, no. No, you don't. You just want to make me feel better.

"Just..." I say, half-flailing two of my arms in the air, aiming at his general direction. "What are you trying here, Gobber? Because, whatever it is, I am not buying it."

"I swear," he exclaims, thumping his chest. "From the bottom of me one heart, and of my Viking honour, that I declare all of what I said, true."

I stare at him like he has got dragon saliva on his face.

"Yeah... not buying that at all."

Grabbing all of my equipment, I stumble out of the room - my paradise, as my intended target.

I hear him call my name, yelling various 'Hiccup's and 'come back's.

But I can't come back. How can come ever back to somebody that spouts such bison tongue?

I observe how people act around me.

They turn their faces away from me as if disgusted by my mere action of existing.

Gobber never interjects when someone berates me.

He sticks up for the rest of the people my age.

Not once did he ever stick up for me.

Ever.

So, when he spouts whatever that is, out of the blue, I know.

That he is not being genuine. Not to me.

Only the rest to whom does he better care for.

I wipe my eyes. My vision is going blurry. Watery.


	8. Akin

"I may as well die of a lightning strike from Thor himself right here and now. Oh gods, oh gods..."

Fishlegs is having a mental breakdown. His entire worldview is crumbling and coming apart right before my very eyes.

Hyperventilating like how a dog would breathe.

The claw necklace he dons is experiencing a mild seizure. "What was your dad even thinking?! Oh, what was he thinking? Oh no... oh gods..."

I was about to say some words of comfort before he starts to rant a tangent.

Again.

"Like - entrusting almost half of Berk's winter fish rations to the most dysfunctional group of teenagers in its three-hundred-year existence?! Not one chief in the entire history of Berk would be so crazy as to do that. I knew it. Your father is insane. This so damned, oh shit is this damn—"

He was about to panic-rant more before I abruptly cut in.

"Fishlegs! Fishlegs," I grab and shake his shoulders to pull him out of his own world. "Collect yourself. Please. You may as well be inviting the whole of Berk to your house."

He tries to, and he did, somewhat.

"Okay," he sighs, breathing in. "Okay."

We take in the view from his window a bit in silence.

I gave a half-hearted chuckle, crossing arms.

Fishlegs reels at the uncharacteristic action.

"Huh. It's funny, this whole situation. I guess my scrawniness was always a fantastic stand out feature of mine."

"Huh?" he questions, perplexed. "What do you mean, exactly?"

I reply with raw honesty.

"My mere presence in the hall kind of prompted him to come to that decision."

He pulls his signature speculative face. "You really think so?"

"Mm," I nod. "See? I really am a burden to everyone."

"You can't seriously be taking all the blame for this," he grumbles.

"You'd be shocked to find out the truth."

"Hmph. I think it is a combined effort, personally, not just you. Our generation collectively contributes to the decision. I mean, have you ever seen them acting a bit less than crazy?"

"Don't think that's the case, Fish."

"How so?"

"Well... surely, past generations have acted the way this generation does," I explain. "Why do you think our adults act the way that they do now? Our generation is not that different from Dad's, or even Gothi's. I mean, you said so yourself that no chief has ever done this before, especially for a group of rowdy teens to manage a fishing boat. They have as effective of an eye for decision-making as a common bird being able to tell what's in front of them without craning their neck sideways." I pause for a moment to collect my ramblings before I soldier on.

"So, to draw to a conclusion? The problem is me. I am the element of unpredictability that throws things off the equilibrium. I caused all of this."

"And you really think that?"

I shoot back with a voice so weak it's pathetic. "Yes."

"Alright, then."

Silence chokes the room once again. But, given the severity of the issues we had just talked about, it made the silence a tad bit... awkward.

The orange sun rays entering Fishlegs' room have now faded into obscurity. A blue-coloured tinge in the atmosphere replaces it now.

It has been quite a while since Fish invited me into his room, so, I try my best to take in the surroundings without giving off any indication that I am being snoopy, one of my defining characteristics as a person.

I can never leave things well enough alone.

 _Here's hoping that curiosity doesn't end up killing the cat..._

In usual Fish fashion, his books are organised neatly on his drawers, with precision so delicate that it would leave the common observer to stand in admiration of it. It is, for lack of a better word, art.

And speaking of art; his walls are decorated with layers upon layers of meticulously crafted artwork, each one of them having Fish's own personal stints – twists that make them unique to him and _only_ him.

It seems not one droplet of paint had gone to waste when from bought paint from Trader Johann at the start of the year.

They costed plenty, but for art, he'd be willing to trade it for anything.

Exactly the same way how I would treat blank papers, actually.

These sorts of resources are privileges here, not rights. To his and my dismay, Vikings never really saw value in art.

There's no _practicality or usefulness to the people_ in art _,_ they argue. And technically, they are not wrong.

But.

When two of arguably the most Southern-like Vikings to ever grace the face of the Archipelago try and try again to be like Vikings, only to procedurally fail and fail again soon after - both have to briefly escape from the stresses of their shortcomings _somehow_.

In a vicinity where physique and combat prowess are put above all else, allowing the wimps to pursue and continue with the only activities we are good at makes them less useless than they already are.

What about the need for scribes, or architects?

They are good responsibilities!

Just...

Give us a chance to step out of the norm.

Step out, and have a go at different ideas.

But.

I understand.

It is human nature to fear sudden change.

A wrench thrown into the plans can effortlessly ruin somebody's day.

Because it is unpredictable. Because almost no time was given prior to the shift en-route.

One misplaced structuring material, and the entire bridge caves in on itself. One loose nail, and it all falls apart.

What _normally_ follows suit in a settlement would be a surge of widespread panic, and the chaos that ensues later would be insurmountable, almost to levels of anarchic proportion.

...

Okay.

Over-exaggeration.

A normal, functional and **sane** village would have a few protestors here and there complaining about change, but it would never amount to something of the likes of a revolution.

But, replace settlement with the word 'Viking-tribe' though, and that statement wouldn't be too far off the truth.

Us northerners are stubborn.

If you have double-crossed a Viking tribe, you best pray they will give you a swift, painless death.

Because whatever it takes, however it takes, however long it takes, wherever it brings them, they will find you. And they will kill you.

Vikings love to hold grudges. It is in their blood.

It won't be in mine.

Before I can explore my thoughts any further, a shout from kitchen intrudes our little purgatory.

"Fishlegs? Hiccup? Come down you two, dinner's ready."

We head downstairs.

Not by walking, mind you. Running. Running as if Death himself is chasing after my skin.

If there's anything you can take away from this, is that Fishlegs' mother's cooking is... indescribable.

It is like having euphoria dance gracefully on your taste buds. I know that's how I would feel once I consume the by-product of unprecedented genius.

If you can take anything from this, let's just put it this way: it is better than Dad's cooking.

That's all.


	9. The Window

My window has the uncanny ability to overlook every little crevice of the town square.

Its scopes reach the shops, the livestock, and even the windows of fellow Vikings. The thing being located taller than it had any right to be is where I am getting at.

And, believe it or not, its position was a calculated, strategic move.

Back in the day, the window was used for the more... tyrannical chieftains to converse with their people.

The whole layout of the house – my house – in fact, was just one big pre-established plan.

Back in the day, the window was used for the more... tyrannical chieftains to converse with their people.

Dad told me it was used to establish some form of authority and dominance upon the villagers, blatantly saying, "Look, we are in charge here, so either you abide by our rules, or we would coerce you to do so!"

And before you ask, Berk has already done away with the concept of dictatorship five generations ago.

Nowadays, that window is bordered up with planks so securely that no one could barge without either Dad or I knowing about it.

Elders say it is bad luck to use instruments that were used for the support of the regime during Berk's dark days, as it reminds them of a past none of them want to ever recall.

I know, firsthand, what it's like for someone to tower over you. While you can do nothing, and are at Their mercy.

In a sense, it's understandable.

I, myself, am grateful.

It is nice to know that people won't intrude my privacy whenever they wish. Because what lies _behind_ that window is the messiest room in the whole of the Archipelago.

Or otherwise known as, my room.

You know how downright creepy it would be it was there was someone to peek into your window?

 _..._

That's what I thought.

However, every now and then, I like to invite the breezes of the night into my bedroom.

My room gets stuffy after a while if not taken care of, so, I put in place a small hatch in there so that I can open and close the border whenever I so please.

I never open it to its full potential though. The crack is always _just_ enough for the night wind to welcome itself into the room, but not enough for me to peek through its crack. Otherwise, I'd be no better than anybody who wishes to see through the chief's house.

Tonight, however... tonight, things will be different.

Tonight, I am playing with fire.

No, not in the literal sense. That'd be suicidal.

But, what I _am_ trying to do is something no Viking has ever done, or even allowed to do, before. And that may as well be suicide on my part.

With this contraption, I would be giving Berk the bleeding edge against the reptilian beasts. But, with this contraption, there would also be the very, very high chance of it falling spectacularly flat on my face.

I have tested this, on multiple occasions, in the Fields, which is a half-an-hour walk from town.

This weapon is my magnum opus, both in terms of its aerodynamics and the mathematics it took to calculate the angles for its aerodynamics. Gods bless the Romans.

Why am I doing this here, you say? Do I have to do this here? _Why_ here, exactly?

 _But who, in the right mind, would want to take half-an-hour off their sweet and precious time to follow Hiccup the Useless into the Fields – to test a weapon that will only so predictably fail after first use?_

That is the kind of thought that has been ingrained within Hooligans' minds whenever I test the reigns on a new, completed project.

Well.

They have every right to feel that way, anyway.

Every invention that I have showcased so far were flops – dead on arrival kind of things. Flukes.

However, unlike any of those, this one works.

...

Wait...

Have I not described this weapon beforehand?

Guess I can't say that I have.

Alright. What would be the perfect pitch?

That it is a throwable weapon, much like a hatchet, so that it would ensure that its user could stand at a reasonable distance when in combat with enemies?

That its edges were razor-sharp?

That it had been sculptured, moulded and designed so that it will do a 'return-to-sender' after being thrown?

That it was made with durability and longevity in mind? That it is sort of like a recognisable English letter 'V', so that it stands out from the crowd?

That it could easily puncture through the scales of a dragon, given the right amount of physical exertion when throwing it?

Ah... do such wonders ever cease...?

...

Damn it.

Going off on a tangent again.

Sometimes I ask myself: what's wrong with me? Always, when there is an important about to occur, the contents of which containing more far-reaching implications and impacts than anyone could ever fathom to think of, I go off on a self-indulgent tangent.

I mentally slap myself. This plan has to work. For Dad.

This is an attention-grabbing stunt, you see – designed from the ground up to be as interesting or irritating as possible. What I hope this would do, in effect, is that it would borrow some eyes to witness what I am doing.

If all goes well, that is to say, if I succeed, maybe Dad would have, for once, at least some semblance of pride for his son.

His only son.

 _Throw the weapon off the window, wait for it to come back again, then the village admits how wrong they are about me._ That's the sequence of events that I hope will occur. Hopefully, it would be along those lines.

This is to establish some sort of self-worth, and redemption for Dad.

And...

Maybe myself.

 _"Don't try to be something you are not,"_ states Gobber, on occasion. _"Use your existing talents to their full potential."_

Let's just hope he is right.

A few moments later, I open the hatch.

I clear my throat.

I am going to grab this thing and cut open the world.

Let's do this.


	10. Urge

This is the real deal. No more sidestepping, Hiccup. This is the real thing.

 _Breathe._

The mocking gaze of the window stares me down. Will it be a window of opportunity, or a way to fall from the top to the bottom?

It'd be hard to tell.

And it will continue to be if I don't start preparing myself. For my sales pitch. For the actual throwing.

 _Breathe in._

I am going to throw, whether I like it or not. This is for what remaining dignity I have - for the entirety of the Haddock family tree.

Here.

Goes.

And...

...

Nothing.

...

Nothing flies out my hand. Or my throat.

The weapon is still there, trembling. I feel the ground shake and my ever-loosening grip along with it.

My form plummets, knees first, hands burrowing into the ground – the weapon stares at me, utterly bewildered.

"How can somebody fail so hard at doing something so amazingly simple?"

Oh, oh, you listen here you little bastard.

You don't even know half of it.

Every word of persuasion I could possibly think of simply dies on my lips.

My mind lies under siege by the mountain waves of anxiety, and the latter?

They are currently winning a landslide victory.

Sometimes, it just isn't fair.

When I am stuck. In a corner. Being held by my shadow. As his captive.

He roars at the top of his lungs. Not the animalistic kind of roar. But the whole-hearted, leap-for-joy kind. To remind me of how _utterly_ disposable I am.

You cannot ever comprehend under how much burden the shadow causes my shoulders as every second passes. He sits there legs crossed, relishing gluttonously and lavishly in the suffering he causes his plaything to experience every day.

I despise that shadow so, so much.

I wish I was that shadow sometimes.

For one fleeting moment. To experience what he is experiencing. To fantasize about what I could experience. The pure joy he feels when he sees people suffer at their expense.

I feel my stuttering heart crack from being under the weight of all that potential happiness in life that I will never ever get to feel.

The shadow only makes me despise myself that much more.

My knees touch my forehead. My freezing hands run along the surface of my knees. I put my head in between.

I feel an urge to bawl.

To cry and whimper, to bury my shameful face in my trembling hands.

I want to lean my head on Dad's shoulder. To let it all out. To beg him to scare the monsters away.

I want him to soothingly wipe the tears away from my face, to hold me warmly as the night slowly takes me.

I want him to listen to my weaknesses, my utter uselessness to my people. A sick and twisted longing for him to understand how I feel every day.

Is that so wrong? So audacious?

Please answer me. Don't leave me here alone. Please don't leave me alone...

The floodgates open that night.


	11. Browbeat

**_This story's style is written in much of the same vein as those stories with first-person narratives._**

 ** _The reason I am writing at all is that I have to write *exactly* like this in future projects at my college. I am just practicing. We have been studying novels, in particular, 'The Messenger' - if you know what that book is, it would give an indication as to would why I am writing this way._**

 ** _This fic won't be very clear-cut at times what is happening at certain moments - if at all. It mainly explores the protagonists' thoughts as he goes along with the story. I try to keep an even balance between the plot and the evolution of the protagonist, but the latter is winning out currently._**

 ** _To those who just want a good story without all of that gunk, sorry!_**

 ** _Oh, and just a forewarning –_ NEVER, _ever, interpret the outlandish scenes (shadow scene, etc.), bar a handful (Night Fury Nightmare, etc.), as literally occurring. Those are just Hiccup's feelings and thoughts. Now that I have established that, onto the matter at hand!_**

* * *

It hurts.

Everywhere. Pain. That numb feeling. At the back of my mind.

A laughing stock. That's what I am. Merely a shadow's plaything. It's toy. Not a human being. But a marionette. A puppet.

Not that I deserved to be called one.

The shadow roars.

He mangles my torso. Kicking me. Hurting me. Torturing me. It is not even recognisable anymore.

He is browbeating. Commenting on how frail, how feeble, how fragile this body is.

It grips my beating heart, never letting go.

I curl.

Like a millipede.

Sobbing. Crying.

 _Help make it stop._

It hurts so much. I keep on screaming, even though I know, deep down, that he'd never listen to me. He roars louder, at the top of his lungs. Nobody can hear me, however.

Nobody will.

Saliva from my lips and throat. It covers the ground.

My knees tremble from the uncensored sensation of unadulterated helplessness.

In front of me, my schematics. Thrashed. On the bleeding ground. Ripped apart. Pieces hijacking the motion of the wind. Away from me.

Free.

My work. My toll. My hours spent. Up till midnight.

All gone.

Trying to do good for the village. And my efforts. Wasted. All taken by him.

I beg you, oh could you please?

Help me. Make it stop. Please.

 _Make it stop._

He roars.


	12. Springtime Blues

Come to think of it, I never did get any sleep that night.

You know, I could have thrown that thing.

I was steps away from that window. I could have maybe redeemed myself.

Unfortunately, Anxiety had a nasty habit of manifesting himself into his own twisted little body in my head, and beat me to a pulp to subsequently tell me otherwise. I end up bending over to his every beck and call.

He also tends to linger around in my dreams when I am not looking soon after, and when in some instances I do notice him, he makes my face an impromptu punching bag so that he could satisfy his insatiable lust for my tears.

I mean, I guess they taste salty enough.

Failure after failure. It's all I seem capable of nowadays.

So, from the bed I have been strapped onto by my own body, I sigh.

...

Spring...

It never seems to give me a break, does it?

It is almost routine every year for me to fall ill to at least something during that period. An inspired spurt of coughing, usually, but on occasion, I do admire how much spring can really make my life even more miserable than what it already is.

No, it can't settle for inflicting those from its grip with merely coughing – that's just abhorrent. Instead, it combines the worst of the worst together.

Oh yes. A temperature, a raspy voice that aches those who dare speak a word, an annoying rash and the disability to even walk because you feel like you had just been hit by a Gronckle projectile. Sounds great, it declares. I agree. Psychopath.

This is one of such spring periods.

Shall I tell you more? Care to listen?

...

From what I've garnered out of your response (or lack thereof), I'll kindly fill in that space for you: no thank you, kind sir.

I sigh, staring at the ceiling for a little while.

Normally, I hate being like this. Held captive involuntarily, tied up in my room; having nowhere to go and all the time in the world to reflect.

Of how useless I am.

This year, however, I'm willing to let Spring slip off my radar.

I think, hopefully, you know why.

And whatever that delays the dreaded day is a welcome one.

Dad failed to account for this, as per usual.

He's probably chatting it up with his friends and Vikings from other tribes, all the while not even having a shadow of a doubt that he'd be better off simply forgetting me altogether.

You may think I am overreacting; a kneejerk reaction. But it is true. And you well know it.

I stare at the ceiling from my casket.

Brown. Drab. Worn. Dull. That's the consequence of letting my eyes speak for me. Again, and again.

That's all that I have been greeted to at the start of every single day of my life, and thus will remain still.

I guess the ceiling is trying to tell me something. That this repetition will never seize to end.

A great shiver intrudes the room, winging through the small window sill, trudging through the shiver of the morning winds and conclusively edicts a mighty cataclysm on me.

That rudely woke me up to my full expanse.

And as a result, I groan.

Wait, didn't I make a rule earlier that any sound made will hurt like shit?

 _AH, MOTHER-_

The sudden jolt of energy I unwelcomingly jumped gives my partners-in-crime quite the fright – Ingrid with a little portion of Fishlegs to the side.

Rarely do I get to see Ingrid nowadays. She's too busy honing her ambitious craft in the kitchen. She doesn't talk much, but everyone knew to keep their distance when she's angry. Frightening fellow. This is usually the only time that we see each other as spring rolls by.

I wave my hand at her, one hand massaging my back. She could only bother huffing.

Better than no response at all, I guess.

My one free hand strokes my throat – flaccid attempts to soothe the burning, but I try anyway. That solidifies that, yes, it is spring now, my dear.

Please, go die in a deep, dank hole, spring. You'd be doing people in a similar situation a great favour.

The majority of the underaged population of Berk remain steadfastly immune to the effects, but for unlucky people like Fishlegs and I, we have to stay indoors as to not suffer under the air that plagues Berk at this time of year. Every bit of skin itches like Hel.

Just as sudden as my outburst of energy, Gothi barges through the door, herbs in hand. A drink for all three of us emerges behind her. Gobber carries that tray. Gee, an old woman that probably quintuples my age attending to kids that should be in much, MUCH better health than her. I feel pampered already.

The roles should be reversed. Then again, Berk doesn't have any traders currently bartering with Berk that could spread any form of foreign disease, because there are none, and yet, here we are.

Gods.

"You three rest diligently now," Gobber speaks. "If all goes well, you should be rested enough for the upcoming fishing trip! One that I will be supervising, but not participating in. Will only interfere if something goes horribly astray. But, come on, it is a fishing trip. There are very few things you can mess up in an expedition like that. The only enemy we have is the weather! Hah!"

Oh, Gobber, Gobber.

You would be surprised at just how many things I can screw up with merely a twitch of my muscle. Just ask my acquaintance Anxiety.

Great fellow.

I force myself to smile. They smile back.

As they walk out of the room, Gobber turns around. "I am looking at ye, Hiccup," he says, pointing a finger as if out of accusation, but his relaxed tone of voice contradicts it. "Don't let yourself down."

They close the door on us. Leaving us alone in this hellhole known as my room.

Both Fishlegs and Ingrid stare at me, donning a worried expression.

I do the same thing I told you what I replied with to Gobber.

I smile.


	13. The Girl that Stared

What I am about to share with you now is the spitting image of what I fear most in life. What I am about to share is the penultimate life that I'd hate to live. Why the penultimate? Because I am not sure what I am most scared of nowadays.

When I was young, I could pinpoint my likes and dislikes as easily as the action of breathing in and out. The world was black and white, back then. Either good or bad. Nothing resided the middle. Our tiny heads couldn't comprehend the concept of thinking for ourselves. Have you ever noticed, as time passes and you grow older, that your perception of what you like or dislike shifts dramatically into something that is not as... simple?

As you grow older, you consider the pros and cons of everyday situations. What are the benefits or disbenefits of doing x, in contrast to doing y?

But hey, why would you care about the constant ramblings of Hiccup the Useless?

What I am going to talk about, or rather, who I am going talk about... is a girl - no older than twenty.

She was the result of a lifetime of loneliness, distaste, misfortunate and an incredulously long string of failures, all condensed into one little human body.

Who am I going analyse? Sigrunn. The solitary shepherd girl that likes to keep to herself. She's known for staring into the fields for minutes, or even hours at a time, as if observing and studying the grass, not by its contents.

Nor its potential use for her flock in the future.

But for what it is.

Tragic, her life story. Always had big ambitions overseas.

She was left parentless at age three after her ma and pa died from a house fire Sigrunn had set herself.

And the consequences of her actions? A body so deformed and scarred it looked like a living and breathing corpse.

Life has a funny way of catching up to you. Even if it has a horrible, horrible way of doing so.

Another Viking took her in like all other children were after their parents die. In this case, that Viking was none other than the blacksmith himself. Gobber.

She didn't remember her parents that well. The body she was left with was the only indication she was given as to what had happened to them.

Those who knew never dared to tell her the truth. A Monstrous Nightmare was the scapegoat instead. _They got burnt to a crisp, according to town legend_ , was what Sigrunn spread around the village.

The funny thing was that the villagers actually bought her story.

You'd think that, in such a tight-knit community, that everybody would be aware of what happened that fateful night. They weren't, though.

They were too busy fending for their own survival than to worry about others'.

Only Gobber, Dad and I know what really happened. Why put me into the equation? Gobber let it slip while he was drunk on ale. Classic, Gobber.

Of course, life doesn't forgive that easily. That'd be outrageous. More tragedy would soon entail as she grew up. And, according to the laws of life it seems, the more suffering, the merrier.

Like how books changed me, music changed her as well. Inside, and out.

The Romans unwittingly ruin the lives of others it seems, what with the incredible things of trade they bring to us for our resources. Things that will never sit well in such a feudal society.

Ingrid squeals whenever they bring their stashes of spices from the east. I never really saw the appeal, to be quite frank. All they do is leave you and your tongue hot and bothered – almost torturingly so. Almost as if your mouth was set on fire.

Anyway - getting ahead of myself. One day when the Romans came, they brought along a musician from the southwest, David, I think he was called. I can picture him as well today as the day he came.

Outlandish attire, his whole figure.

Massively overdone hair.

Make-up that ranges all the possible colour variants in the pink spectrum.

The smoothest and shiniest clothing that looks to be made of a material which combines wool with leather.

He had all the traits that make a Southerner so memorable.

And did I mention of a distracting mole that graces the right side of his cheek?

Anyway, us Vikings didn't think much of him at first. Tad bit leaning on the eccentric side, surely, but nothing all too threatening.

But, behind that innocent guise, laid a silent killer in his baggage he so nonchalantly carried.

Now, come to mention it, it was not silent at all. It was loud. Worryingly loud. Practically screaming for attention. I read descriptions of these Southern musical instruments before in the books the Romans brought to my doorstep, but this. Not what I had expected.

You can communicate the looks of an object through words relatively well, since you can picture the object described. But, sound? A definitive grey area.

Music is really hard to describe in word. At best, sound music can be described through a person's personal opinion.

 _It was heaven on earth. It was gods-awful. It was alright._

I think you get the point.

The books the Romans brought describe the music from the South as being transported into another plane of existence. I mean, fair enough – of course you would want foreigners to have a positive opinion on your country.

So, when David took out some sheets of paper dotted with signs that didn't make sense, a musical instrument with four strings that follows a cylinder-ish frame and a stick with a white sting attached to it, the mead hall didn't know **what** to expect.

But. When he played.

Music isn't something that can be described. Music is something that is felt.

I realised that when he started.

Every single soul that resided in the hall was utterly hypnotised by the instrument's drawing, seducing gaze. At its mercy. This wasn't something comparable to music the bards made in bars. This was something more. Something better.

And, just like that, with a finger snap, Sigrunn was hooked on his spell.

She sought for Daniel after hearing his transformative piece.

She needed more. Another high. Another feeling. Another good feeling. Just. One more time.

The foreigner, much flattered and humbled by his new Northern friend, thought her the ropes of music as much as he could before departing for home. She was... attentive. That's putting it mildly. Every bit of information, she swallowed it up. She wanted so badly to create this sound again. This... amazing sound that makes the hair on your back stand.

In the end, her time spent was worthwhile, overall. She had learnt the basics of the wooden instrument and was thought how to read music.

Luckily, no language barrier was had to impair the learning process. Daniel did his homework.

Weeks later, catastrophe.

No. Not in the way you are thinking. Hardly.

It was not in the sense that it suddenly happened and that the incident was all out of Sigrunn's control.

Because.

It was. All of it.

From the beginning to the end. It was not some ill-fated freak accident that caused her the despair. Nor was it caused by the hands of the elements. It was the incredulously long string of failures that I spoke of earlier; or to put it in lighter terms, mistakes. That she was _aware_ of doing.

She was on a fishing trip with her uncle. He wanted to catch some good grub. The plan initially was to spend some time together – reconnect as a family. But, unfortunately, that was not to be. Sigrunn would much rather spend her precious time on her music rather than her family.

She was in the cabin. Playing her instrument. Practicing with her notes. Not talking to her uncle.

Daniel called it a violin.

She looked deranged. An obsessed artist, drowning in her own work, never lifting her head up when it matters.

I would spare you the details, but the tale is too depressing not to tell.

Her uncle, at the end of his rope, finally figured: "enough is enough."

He took all of her music, including her dearest beloved, and stored it in the lower deck of the boat. He locked it up.

As you can imagine, Sigrunn was quite disheartened. And a bit overreactive. She vowed to herself never to come near her uncle again.

A vow she would soon break.

But, in what type of situation? In what scenario? That, she didn't, and couldn't bother, predicting. That will soon be her downfall. Still in a blur, Sigrunn aimed the sails facing due course east, never bothering to check the map first.

Where's Berk, you ask? It was west.

Her uncle had been too trusting of her better judgment. _She had adjusted the sails a million times before on trips like this. What will be so different this time?_ **That** was the uncle's downfall. How tragically wrong could one possibly be?

They were far from land already, but, at this point in time, they were even further. They should be seeing the outlines of land by now. He was getting worried. This was not good.

Above them, the colour grey. Surrounding them, the intensity of the waves. In front of them, white flashes of light. _Oh no._ This was not good at all. By then, the uncle already adjusted the sails facing land, but, it seemed too little too late for this merry cohort.

The waves only rectified their presence, climbing onto the ship's deck. It was worsening. They were lost. They were doomed. It was only then, that Sigrunn remembered her kryptonite.

Her violin.

Locked.

In the lower deck.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her uncle's keys, and booked it. No concern for her wellbeing. Just her, and that violin. She wasn't live without it before they would undoubtedly capsize.

She ran.

She wasn't looking.

Only the lock. Only her keys.

Not the ground. Not the ship. Not the waves.

She tripped.

The waves assisted in her descent.

And with one swift motion, her skull met the sail pole. Her ears bled. She couldn't hear a thing.

Only ringing.

And, from that moment forward, she never heard a note of music again.

What was there to live for anymore?

Her uncle tried his best to fight their survival, and they did survive. Barely. He thought nobody died that day. But. He was wrong. He didn't see the corpse that laid dead on the ground. Sigrunn made it out alive, but her soul, didn't. It was still decaying on the ship's deck.

And that was all she wrote.

Now.

Why did I even bother telling you this tale in the first place?

Because.

I am **terrified**.

That I could be in the exact same situation as Sigrunn was.

Where her own misjudgment and incompetence led to her own downfall.

As I walk through the town square.

As the children run around and laugh and play.

As the villagers banter and talk and gossip.

As the shopkeepers work and negotiate and barter.

Sigrunn stares into her field.

She _haunts_ me.


	14. Nothingness

A cold dew brushes over my forehead.

My teeth chatter.

The night wind howls the song of lost souls.

The moon hides behind the cover of the misty sky, almost afraid that the black which drenches the land whole would taint its white purity.

It is the dead of the night.

Not one bird sings a melody tonight.

Something stares at me across the bed.

Smiling.

I cannot move.

My legs. I feel it coming up and up. It feels like fingers.

It walks to my right. It still smiles. It leans closer. Against my cheek.

It still smiles. Its neck convulses and spasms.

I helplessly stare into its soulless eyes.

It opens its mouth. A droning sound leaves its mouth in its wake.

It is getting louder. It is getting higher.

Never-ending, never-ending.

I cannot scream.

 **Trust me,** it chants. Trust me.

 **You won't have to feel any more pain anymore. Come closer, Hiccup. I will show you. Come.**

I cannot breathe.

It warmly embraces me into its empty folds.

Soon.

Very soon. I will be nothing. Nothing but the nothingness of life will remain. And then. Total nothingness.

Now that there will be no more Hiccup, a jet-black something will emerge and embark from the folds.

It will be graceful. It will be confident. It will be cunning. But, it will be, above all, changed. It will be something new. It will be something great.

It will be _something_ better.

It stares at me with a melancholic smile.


	15. Wedding Crasher

My body has come to the just conclusion that it has had enough fun with me.

And, although getting up from bed shouldn't be as intensive and agonising as my body depicts it to be, it is considerably better than not being able to get up at all.

Even if it means I have to bear crutches with me wherever I go.

Ingrid had always been a fervent soul, so it came as no surprise to me, or to anyone, for that matter, that she got up the moment she had been given the green light. My… other not so fortunate bed mate, on the other hand…

Yeah, I doubt Fishlegs has made much progress in his recovery, if at all. Believe it or not – but somehow, someway, there exists a somebody on this gods-forsaken isle that is even _scrawnier_ than me. I had set the bar for muscle capacity incredibly low, so for one to surpass that is frankly astonishing.

Can't even be the best in one of the only things I am good at.

That's... sad.

A weak, frail voice punctures the pungency of the atmosphere. "H-Hiccup?"

"Yes," I say, turning around. "Fishlegs?"

"Uh..." he starts. "You think your father is going to let you on the boat in... that condition?"

"Oh, shut it you," I reply with a swat of the hand.

Never mind the insistent harassment from Snotlout or Dad's negligence, driving my hitches – this… this trumps over all of those problems.

Look, I get it.

I am not cut out for any of this leadership business, I know that.

But that doesn't justify them shoving the fact down my throat every time I so move a muscle.

"But... to answer your question?" I continue, eyes keening on his. "Hopefully not."

Fishlegs looks down, an unreadable emotion soon spreading on his face.

"S-sometimes-" he laments before he abruptly sneezing. "I wonder what goes on in y-your father's h-head."

The only appropriate response I could give to his sentiment is a long, hearty sigh.

"You and me both."

Turning back around, I ready my crutches.

"Hey, H-Hiccup?"

I retract my poise. "Yeah?"

"Get better."

My shoulders slouch. "I will... try to the best of my ability, then."

"Now that's... w-what I like to hear."

"Hmph," I remark. "See you."

He throws a spurt of coughs. "Y-you too."

And at that, with great and unneeded effort, I open the door and step out into the real world.

What immediately strikes me is the ordinariness of the atmosphere. As if... _nothing_ is about to happen over the coming days.

The children play and scurry around as they normally do.

Astrid and company are still busy as ever training in the Kill Ring.

Repairs are commencing with haste in preparation for the next dragon raid.

Dad is dealing with some of the first traders that are docking at Berk.

Umm. Okay.

Run around, guys.

It's not like your future is on the line once **my** merry cohort set sail to inevitable catastrophe.

Sometimes I can't help but wonder, what _was_ Dad thinking during that meeting?

And why is he delaying the damn thing?

Oh. Right.

Me.

I am obligated to be on the ship when that happens.

Only I could be its captain, not anybody else. Dad could have got someone else who is more than capable, but no. That'd ruin any form of allure for danger or fun.

Point is, the journey demands a healthier individual. Otherwise, it'd be pointless.

Ugh.

The thought of the role is leaving a sour taste in my mouth. The only thing I am good for in events like these is my presence.

That's it.

 _To make steadfast decisions_ , Stoick says.

The only thing that will be steadfast will be the speed at which we sail to our demise, Dad. Surely, there are better ideas to teach me to ropes to being chief?

But knowing _his_ standards, thinking of any other option is impossible.

Vikings are not known for their ability to think with open minds. Fat chance persuading that clay wall to change his mind.

* * *

I progress further and further from the village until I reach the docks, and taste, for the first time in a whole fortnight, the radiance of the morning Sun.

The sensation tingles on my skin, the barest hints of pleasure, scathing on its rugged surface.

After the dreadful temperatures and hails of the Winter-hold, things are finally starting to look slightly livelier in the docks.

The traders are coming in hot, hoping to dip their feet and expand their goods to lesser-developed communities.

More and more tribes have come to visit as well – some exchanging glances of rivalry, others praising Odin for such merry reunions.

None could predict, however, what also happened next.

The joy I had observing the docks had dulled most of my senses. One of them being my sense of depth perception.

Of course, a consequence emerged from that.

The mother of _all_ spanks.

And by Balder's great bottom, did it sting!

"AGH!" I yelp.

I turn around to face the perpetrator. "Was that really..."

My voice dies down as I start to notice what, or more appropriately, who exactly she is.

"Necessary." I quietly finish.

Weakly, I cower underneath her, tensing for the inevitable...

No.

Not this time.

Now, unlike Dad, her facial expression dons a much different beast from what Dad usually gives me.

Instead, what replaces it the cheekiest and most childish face I have ever seen an adult possess.

There's a kid in all of us, I guess...

"HICCUP!" she bellows. "MY BOY!"

Her arms wrap my shoulders and holy *shit* does it hurt.

She bends down to face level, smiling.

"Nice to meet you again, Miss Torstein..." I muster.

Pause.

 _"Huh?"_ you question. _"Isn't that a boy's name?"_

 _"Why, yes."_ I answer back.

Yes, it is.

But when you are in a tribe whose Vikings are entirely made up of women, you can take incredibly lax liberties in the way you choose gender stereotypes.

Mm. You guessed right.

The Bog-Buglar Tribe has paid a long overdue visit to Berk. And what really surprised me – this is the punchline – they thought the best course of action to make first contact with the people of Berk in **four** whole years…

Was to strike a conversation with the Chief's son.

Why, I feel flattered already.

So, remind me again why you'd want to talk to me when Dad is standing not two ship's worth distance away, on the docks?

With that, she springs a mighty whack on my back, severely overestimating my ability to tolerate pain. Softly, I let out a whine. _"…ow."_

"HAH! It seems just like yesterday when we last visited!" she reflects out loud. "My, my, have you grown up! Vertically at least - a-a... a little bit on the lean side, sure, but your father will make a man out of you yet. Your puberty will come in eventually, Hiccup dear."

Really?

Because.

Last I checked, I felt some hair strands grow around my armpit – that ultimately rules my growth spurt out of the question. And I think my voice deepened. I… think.

Torstein tries to blow away the suspense hanging in the air as best she can. "So... what _are_ you doing here near the shore?"

My signature catchphrase comes into play. "Uhm..." I stutter. "Well. Just need to take in some spring weather, I guess. Breathe in the fresh air," she looks at me concerningly, "yeah. Being bedridden for two weeks can do that to you. Besides, the sun is a welcome change."

"Ah," she snaps her finger, "so that explains the stilts."

"Pretty much."

She folds her arms, looking back to the docks.

"So… what have you come down with?"

I ponder for a bit.

"Don't know. Can't have caught any foreign disease, that's a given. I got it before any trader came. I... am clueless."

"Yes, it's odd. Always happens this time of year." I nod in agreement.

What she says next throws me off completely. "Oh, lovely drawings you have here, by the way. Have you considered artistry?"

Puzzled, I turn to face her – and wouldn't you know it.

In her hands rested a pocket-sized, amateurishly put together notebook. I don't make much of it at first.

What tips me off is the colour of its cover.

Beige yellow.

And soon, I stand in clear, dumbfounded realisation that that particular notebook she is inspecting – almost like a tribal – is mine.

Come to think of it, my pocket _does_ feel a little light.

A bit miffed at her intrusion, I cross my hands.

Bog-Burglars don't have the word 'burglar' in their name for nothing.

The art of thievery and deception is what their entire culture revolves around.

Their craze. Their obsession. Their muse.

Over the past years, I have come to love and hate their culture.

Guess how I feel about them now.

A grin appears on Torstein's face, almost as if acknowledging my mild annoyance as she looks at my notebook.

I hate calling it a journal.

Never cared to write about my day to day activities on it; because most of the time, my life looks rather dull from a Viking's point of view.

I agree.

Being normal is not in the Viking code of ethics.

Her stealing my book is already surprising enough, but who stands near her is even more.

The lady in question stands in almost a comically heroic fashion. Her attire looks protective, yet buoyant and agile, hair dancing and twirling around like brace-locks.

Her left eye is shielded by an eyepatch.

Her palms have been slogged in white fabric. The fingers on them look calloused, scarred from endless practice with a dagger. She looks like Gracefulness if it had freckles on its face.

And she, just like her aunt, too, wears a mischievous smile on her lips. A mischievous smile I had become acquainted with almost a lifetime ago.

"C-... Camicazi?"


	16. Kamikaze

What would your eyes say, if they could speak? About the current surroundings.

I personally wouldn't want to intrude your personal thoughts, so I will just keep to myself.

Here. I will go first. What would mine say? Right now?

Well.

Mine would note the sheer variety of things happening all at once. Would you like my comprehensive list? I thought not. So, I will narrow the list down to two key dot points about what is most relevant:

(i) I am currently suffering from a heart attack of the mind.

(ii) Camicazi is standing right in front of me. In the flesh.

The tribe Camicazi's from are raiders in nature. Plundering other tribes as a means of placing food on the table. Yeah, sure. It sounds petty. Perhaps rightfully so.

But.

The Bog-Burglars are the **respectable** type of raiders. Only stealing from the tribes who endorse slavery or otherwise any form of inhumane practices.

As you can hopefully understand, I am feeling rather uncomfortable right now. And the look she is giving me supports my understandable stance. She is looking to cause mischief if that everlasting fire that burnt in her eyes gives me any sort of indication.

But... there's more to it than that.

Behind that gaze, lies, quite openly, a vulnerability. As if... she's scared of something.

And, in turn, that scares me. Nothing scares Camicazi.

Nothing.

Then, a lingering thought surfaces in my mind.

Why would the Bog-Burglars come and visit Berk, if they were so wholly-independent? Especially after a four-year hiatus? They seem content with living on their own, subsidising themselves and only themselves. So, why now? Out of the blue?

I'd wager that it involves certain overgrown lizards. Terrorising them.

They would be at their wit's end and _desperate_ if they were seeking contact with other tribes. The dragon epidemic is spreading. Couriers bring word of the increasing rate of dragon attacks.

They say that one by one, like tipping dominoes, smaller tribes fall out of the map entirely. The Peaceables. The Wanderers. The Quiet-Lifes. Their land, ravaged and stripped apart by the reptilian menace.

If the Bog-Burglars were hit – next up, would be the two other Viking tribes, the Hysteric Tribe and the Visithug tribe, and then eventually... us. The Hairy Hooligans. I shudder at the thought. I thought that the raids were already bad enough. We would not survive if they get to us, not by a long shot.

It'd be a matter of time before we sail South and leave this place behind. Such drastic measures were never thought of before, only ever considered by the realistic. But, as the moons and moons go by, every day will be a little bleaker than the previous. Every day, that train of thought will be what more and more Vikings will possess. If this goes on, Viking pride would be done for, and will only be seen as a form of blind and ignorant hope. A form of denial for the stark reality that is the cruel world.

Then.

The Great Migration to the South.

A sick, sick part of me wishes this were the case.

 _Knowledge. Books. Studying._ Three words, echoing and spinning and churning my mind like a tornado. There was always this craving inside, screaming for more; almost to the point where I think my ears will bleed.

And The South would adequately provide.

The other part is... less selfish.

A tradition held for the better part of the Archipelago's entire history should not be thrown away so hopelessly or pathetically. It would break Dad's heart. To have lived and breathed the Viking culture for all of your life, only for it to fade away to the nothingness of air. That would break you.

So. What I am getting at. The Bog-Burglars have come to Berk to discuss the ever-increasing problem of dragons. And by that pose Camicazi took to strike, they may as well be the case.

"Hiccup," Camicazi finally announces after much silence, a smirk appearing on her face.

"Cami."

"Huh," she chortles. "You haven't changed much, have you?"

"Well. To be fair, you too. You are still as short as I remember you."

"Wow. First comment you get from an old friend of yours that you have **just** met in over four years is a critique."

"W-wait, wha- I... I didn't mean it that wa—"

I was going to finish the sentence before she cuts me off.

"Ah. Still insecure as ever. That's the Hiccup I know and love!" She laughs, much to my disdain. "Seriously, though. It was just a joke, Hiccup. A teasing remark, no harm done. Does not bruise my ego. Hel, shouldn't bruise anybody's ego. Nobody's going to come and beat you up for what amounts to _banter_ , you know," she smiles. The smile fades as quickly as it came as her eyes wander somewhere else. "Well, unless..."

She looks down sadly, acting as if she has crossed a line. "Is Snoutlout still being an ass?"

I nod gloomily.

"Damn," she sighs. "Sorry I couldn't be there when you needed friends most. I... can't take him on my own. Not strong or big enough. He is a hellish **unit**."

She flexes her lacking muscles to make a point. Looks like she hasn't eaten for days. I get that comment from a lot of people in the village, too. I guess we have that in common.

"So, in that case... still all by your lonesome, huh?"

I stumble. How, in the name of Freyja's offspring, does she know? Oh. Right.

Girls always know.

"I guess you could put it that way."

"Don't worry, Hiccup. They will change once they grow up. They will mature."

"You are severely overestimating a Viking's ability to change."

"Huh. True," she laments. "But remember: there's always that _slight_ chance. Just have blind hope, Hic. It will help."

Hope. Blind hope. Hope may help other people throughout their lives, but not me. I repel it. I just... ' _hope_ ' that it repels back on my stubbornness.

Cami tugs on my shoulder, gesturing to her aunt and the rest of the girls she brought with her.

"Come! They are going to meet with your father! And you'd do better for yourself than to think we are missing _that_."

"Uh..."

I know she has the best of intentions. But me being there will make everything uncomfortable and, most of all, awkward.

But... since Cami asked so nicely, and it is the first time we met in years...

"Okay."


	17. Monotonous

Just as I predicted, Awkwardness treats himself to the docks we are standing on, and he is making himself at home in quite the informal fashion.

He didn't come because of something insensitive I said, gods no. I didn't even open my mouth. He treated himself around the vicinity because of my seemingly innocent action of just _existing_.

I am never, bar the weekly meeting, ever involved in any form of formal and official business with neighbouring tribes. Dad is always worried that I might screw up, or, even worse, that I may shed the wrong kind of light on Berk's respectable reputation. I think he is on just authority to believe what he believes.

I am a worryingly effective magnet for all things unfortunate.

"Stoick the Vast," greets Torstein, raising her good arm, opening the palm.

"Torstein," he gesturally returns, shaking it. "And what brings you here, to Berk? I thought you ladies mentioned something about being wholly independent because of the occupation you guys ha—"

"I know what it looks like. But I realise, especially in the current climate, that the decision was... rash."

"Oh? What kind of clima—"

"I think you know quite bloody well the current climate that is being imposed upon us, Stoick."

Yikes. The dragon raids. The source of every Viking's disdain.

"Oh," he stammers. "I see. That bad?"

"You don't even know half of it."

This time, it is Dread who welcomes himself into the already sore conversation, but, instead of surrounding us, he places himself deep within all of our hearts. He roars.

"So..." starts Dad, hoping to revive this dialog. "What are ye here for, exactly?"

Torstein stops to think. Camicazi looks up at her longingly. The rest of the girls watch and wait, patiently, I might add. I try to hide my very distracting presence.

"Primarily?" she starts. "More wood is a good start. Barely have any trees left to derive from on our island. Can't build any more ships or houses without them."

"Done."

Torstein recoils.

"Just like that?"

"I mean, have you even looked around the isle? We have more wood than we can manage or even cut down. And, from leader to leader, the wood's free of charge. Can't imagine what you folks are living through."

"Wow. Thanks," she... um... thanks. "But. I can guarantee you will want compensation for this one."

"Have at me!"

"Next, how do I put it... more food."

"I stand corrected." He puts emphasis on the 'stand'.

She laughs heartily. "Hah! I knew it."

That smile fades into monotone apprehension in a matter of seconds. She continues.

"We'd take anything we can get. Supply's not looking good this spring. We'd starve if this keeps up. I..."

"No," he speaks. "I understand. But... here's the problem."

He sighs.

"Normally, our winter fish would be plentiful. This year though? I don't think we will meet our usual quota."

"Hmm? How so?"

The expression on Dad's face tells me that he is hesitating to tell her this. Oh, please. Oh, for the love of the gods, please. Don't mention the fishing expedit-

"My son is leading one of the fishing trips this year, along with the rest of the juveniles here in Berk."

Oh.

Oh, no. This is bad.

Why does Dad always have to turn attention to me at the worst possible of moments?

Everybody turns to face me, eyebrows raised in sceptical fashion. I force myself to smile. What _else_ could I do but smile at the moment?

And meanwhile, Camicazi, in typical Camicazi fashion, smirks as if everything's jolly and good in the world.

If you please just excuse me? Has she no remorse for the tortured soul that I unwillingly possess?

I swear, on occasion, she can morph herself into the human equivalent of the term sociopath. What gives? She has done this to me on purpose on multiple occasions. And the worst part? She gets a gods-damned kick out of it. Psycho.

But... she's my psycho.

The only psycho I have.

The only psycho who was willing to stick around with me even when I was the outcast of the bunch. The only psycho who I could talk to when I was young. The only psycho who was eager enough to be my friend. And for that, I am grateful.

However.

There are some moments where you just want to tear out every single strand of hair from your head because she is **that** suicidal.

Well, may as well be considered suicidal at least.

Fun, by her definition, is running headfirst into the most perilous of situations and hope that she can make it out in one piece.

But, hey. What do _I_ know?

Because so far – here's the punchline – somehow, some way, she managed to come out on top for each and **every** one of those situations, all in one piece. Would you like a list of all the stunts she pulled? It'd cover well over two pages, so I won't even bother.

...

Fine. I could list out a few.

 ** _LIST OF ABSOLUTELY BATSHIT THINGS (CHERRY-PICKING) CAMICAZI HAS DONE:_**

 ** _(a)_** ** _JUMP DOWN FROM MY HOUSE ROOF WITHOUT ANY SHOES_**

 ** _(b)_** ** _LIGHT HERSELF ON FIRE VOLUNTARILY_**

 ** _(c)_** ** _CASUALLY SWIM IN SKULDRON-INFESTED WATERS_**

 ** _(d)_** ** _CHUG FIVE PORTIONS OF ALE IN ONE SITTING_**

 ** _(e)_** ** _USE A KNIFE TO CARVE SCARS ON HER SKIN BECAUSE "SCARS ARE COOL"_**

 ** _(f)_** ** _RIDE A DRAGON IN THE KILL RING, SUBSEQUENTLY TRYING TO SNAP ITS NECK_**

 ** _(g)_** ** _SPANK AN ELDER'S BUTTOCKS_**

So...

I can assure you.

That survival trait applies to her well.

And it doesn't necessarily mean that it would apply to me in turn.

If I had done half of the stunts she had miraculously managed to pull out of her arse, I would be dead twenty times over. And... in the very likely event that she reveals to me that she was the offspring of Loki himself, I wouldn't bat an eye. Because it is _that_ probable.

I was so deep in thought that I forgot a conversation was even happening, and a serious one at that.

"Anything else?" asks Dad to Torstein.

"I think that about covers it. Thank you."

"No need for thanks, friends help each other."

They were about to shake on it before...

"Fishing expedition, huh?" chimes in Camicazi, to the surprise of many, except for myself. "What is it about?"

Torstein replies. "Cami, it is none of your concern—"

"It may as well bloody be one of your concerns. Tall order to deny an heir of the Bog-Burglar tribe's piqued interest," she spits. "Fill me in."

Stoick complies, impressed with Cami's confidence. "Well, first and foremost, I scheduled a fishing expedition for all of the youngers here in Berk to embark o—"

"Then count me in!"

Everybody turns to face her, as if she is something alien. "E-excuse me?"

"Didn't you hear? Need to clear some wax from your earholes?"

"I..." stammers Torstein.

"Look, since we are staying here for the long haul, may as well have some fun doing it. Where's the harm in staying here for a _slightly_ elongated period?"

Both the Hooligan and the Burglar group stand in silence. Dad breaks the silence.

"Well, she has a point. Torstein, may as well. What is there to lose?"

"Her life?" she invaluably chimes in.

"Really?" remarks Camicazi, angrily. "I am practically made of steel. You have seen it yourself!"

I mean... yeah. She has got an argument there.

"Really, now? Because, from what I recall, steel doesn't really float well in water very well, does it?"

"Bah. Enough of this. Both of you," shouts Stoick. "If she wants to go, she has the right to go."

He continues. "Would you really want to be the next-"

"Grimbeard? Are you comparing me to his tyra—oh no, gods no," replies Torstein. "Alright. If you want to, Cami? Fine. Fine. You can go."

Camicazi smiles happily at her exploits, satisfied and content with herself.

"However," continues Torstein. "If you end washing up dead by the shore, it will be on your head that The Bog-Burglars will be heirless."

"Alright," says Camicazi. "I... promise not to die."

"Cross my heart and hope I die?"

"Cross my heart and hope I die."

"So, it is done then," finalises Torstein. "Fine, Stoick, you may borrow her for a while."

"Excellent."

So, with that settled, the crowd disperses, and she turns to face me, a wider smile forming.

Huh. Things got a whole lot more interesting. And muddled.


	18. How's the Peeping?

This.

This is it. The beginning of the end.

At least, it may as well be. I groan.

Tonight. Tonight is the night before the big day. Who knew that the concept of going on a fishing expedition could be so imposing?

I sit at my workstation at the blacksmith. I try to entertain myself.

 _Up, down, up, down_ , the charcoal stick went on the slop of the table. How exhilarating, playing with my pencil. The sight would be jarring to the common viewer.

 _Now just what on Earth are you doing here?_ you ask. _I... really don't know_ , I reply back.

I haven't a clue.

I continue fiddling with my stick. I try to find something to take my mind off things. Something that will ease the crushing, agonising weight on my shoulders.

It's not working. Not by a longshot.

I sit under the cover of the moonlit night – the moon's gaze, more judgmental than ever before. "Rest," it pleas. "You wouldn't want to get on that ship tomorrow half-awake. It will only make things worse. Would you want to make a haphazard attempt at your first go as a leader? Your reputation, however tarnished, is still reputable standing on Berk. Sleep is good for you."

I think I know damn well that sleeping is and what it does for you, thank you very much. I just... can't. Sleep.

I can't shake the feeling off that something catastrophic is going to occur tomorrow. Something scarring, to both myself and the Vikings. And the whole scene would be at my hand.

I shiver.

I cannot lead myself, let alone other people.

What was Dad thinking, oh, what was he thinking? How I long to stifle myself in tears. I bury my head into the table. I look comical. Man, who better to rant about life's woes than the Chief's son himself – Hiccup Horrendous Haddock 'Useless' the Third?

"You done yet?"

 _That_ broke my seemingly never-ending spell of self-loathing. I search maniacally around the room for the source, only to turn about fruitless.

"W-where are you?"

A sickly silence starts to form around the room, only before the perpetrator to break its trance soon after.

"Look above."

I comply.

An audible drop from the roof echoes my chamber of deeply-guarded secrets. A figure dressed top to bottom with infiltration steps into my doorway. I imagine the spy grinning.

"How long were you listening?"

"Long enough."

"Oh." This is humiliating. "I—"

"Why the tension?"

The comment makes myself self-conscious, as was intention. My knees are jittering rather violently. As if I am staring at Freyja herself. I try to stop myself. Another fruitless prevail.

Noticing my discord and obvious distress, the spy detaches her mask. Oh, goody – and who better for the Peeping Tom to be other than Camicazi? She looks dash. Professional. She opens her mouth, bemused at my behaviour.

"What's with all the fuss? It's me! Did you think of me as an assassin of sorts? Even if I was, who would contract me to kill you? Of all the people in Berk?" she questions. "Or is it...?"

She takes another look at me, suddenly taken aback. Did I have puppy eyes?

"I... you know what? I am sorry. I was under no authority to do that. I forgot how much you are not looking forward to the... event," she mouths. "I took advantage when you were at your lowest. I am sorry."

She looks down, as guilty as I have never seen guilty done before.

"I..." I start. "You couldn't have known."

"I know. I am just... insensitive to _anybody's_ wellbeing in general." She sighs. "I am an ass."

"If it is any consolation, you have been an 'ass' to everybody as long as I have known you, and you seem to be getting along us just fine. It is a brand. An established one, at that, and one that I am fine living with. It gives you your character."

"That is the problem," she mumbles. "Lived with it all my life. Only to realise it now... ugh. It's pathetic. I have to change."

Change. How I hate that word. The word itself never follows through.

She walks out of my workstation. In a shameful manner. That is not something you see every day. Not by Cami's standards. I look back to my desk.

"Oh, and Hiccup?" she says suddenly. I turn to face her. "Get some sleep."

And with that, she trudges on, and the night's dark shroud engulfs her within its folds, never to be seen again. For the time being.

I take her advice to heart.


	19. Beginning of the End

The fluids of the sea fence the rocky foundations of the docks, mooring henceforth on its wooden planks. The process repeats itself.

Would you care to pore over at it with me?

It is hypnotic, the whole process. Every bit of it.

The way the liquid shimmers in the Sun's all-powerful reach, only then to fall hopelessly onto a cold, dead surface. How ironic. The water lives in the very essence of nature, and dies on the product of dead nature. A resurrection occurs later. The water, slowly but surely, forms a gas, and then binds itself to the sky again. Reincarnated. The gas deploys later as the form of rain, and inaugurates itself, once more, into the blue folds of the sea.

Only then does the circle of life repeats itself once more. Fascinating. Dangerously so. You could get addicted to nature. Then, it is only a matter of attaining that next high.

People have died from it.

I don't want to be a statistic.

I am shivering as I stand on the docks. My knees tremble, and so do the planks beneath me. It can feel the added weight I had put on my shoulders. It is struggling.

I made my best efforts. I tried. But I couldn't get any sleep last night. I was too busy being spellbound by problems to care for or even acknowledge my body's own.

 _Why?_ it curses. _Why am I of service to this boy?_ Truthfully, I don't know.

My wholehearted condolences to you, and all the ancestors that proceed you.

I tuck my arms within themselves. I take everything in. Everything is so busy.

The twins are busy loading the ship, bickering and bantering. Snotlout is busy chatting it up with women from neighbouring tribes, blind and hopeful. Gobber is busy making sure everything on the boat is in order, top to bottom. Astrid is busy helping Gobber unpack everything on the deck, diligently and almost ecstatically. Fishlegs is busy attempting to walk on his crutches, sickly and worrisomely. Camicazi is busy being missing.

And me? I am not being busy. Not in the slightest. I am not helping in any sort of manner. I am just there, present, like how I described handling myself in important events earlier. Doing nothing.

I am being... useless. As useless and lifeless as the water that had landed on the docks. Except, I don't get reincarnated. Anything can happen in this trip. Not that, though. All likelihood of that happening is below the lowest of my expectations.

A shout pierces the dock's discording sounds.

"CHILDREN!" screams Gobber from the ship's deck. Everybody pauses what they are doing, turning towards the man. "Ready yourselves! We will be leaving once the Sun strikes midday!"

"Big mouth, huh?" came a voice beside me. Of course, it is Cami. Who else, at this point? The Shadow that stared at me the other night? "He's a force of nature, that man. Hard to believe he is a humble blacksmith and not someone of political standing among Viking circles. His charisma ticks all of the boxes."

She turns to face me, adjusting her compact satchel. "Hiccup," she says, softly. "Good luck leading this thing."

Almost on cue, the Juveniles begin lining up in front of the ship, the expressions forming on their faces tell me they are ready for anything.

Oh yes, that includes me.

I am ready.

Ready for nothing.

Fishlegs looks at us from the safety of the beach. His face forms a sympathetic expression. I gulp.


	20. Storm

A mauling storm is brewing in front of the ship and at the back of my head. Both storms look ferocious, and both equally long to beat me into little more than a pulp. I am not exactly prevailing at the comfort of shore. They know that. And they want to capitalise on it. The latter looks to be particularly toying. The clouds look peculiarly grey this afternoon.

I count whatever remaining lucky stars I have left.

If my current position is anything to go by, I am at the overseer's deck, looking over Berk's future condensed on one, cramped deck, hard at work.

I envy them. Envy them for being anything but me. It makes me look that much more useless.

At first, I didn't understand why Berk gave me the nickname 'Useless' – I thought it was cruel and hurtful. But now, I am beginning to comprehend it more and more, each passing day. The slogan I have slated with is not supposed to be impertinent to me.

Anything but.

Instead, it states out a fact, as clear as day. It is merely stating the obvious.

"So?" came a voice behind me, as thick as an encyclopedia. Gobber. "Go ahead. Lead."

"Is saying 'I don't know how' a good enough response?"

"If ya bribe with, say, a better grindstone, then sure. But for the time being, I am afraid not, lass," he half-heartedly responds. "Good try, though."

I cross my arms. "But I..." I say. "I really don't know. What to do."

"Honest to the gods, my dead grandmother can lead betta than dis sorry display," he says. Well, he's not wrong. Not one bit. "Fine. I will ye give a hint. I won't be repeating myself."

I close in, ears open, attentive.

"Believe it or not, an uncharismatic leader, like yourself, can still lead, despite the obvious negatives," he starts. Now, I am hooked. "Some leaders, in the past, make up for their lack of social skills in their smarts. They didn't need to possess extraordinary calibre to lead. Anybody can, given the correct mindset. And I reckon that you will fit in that department nicely."

"Okay," he continues. "Let's start! Observe the deck. Your eyes. Tell me, what do they see?"

I comply with his wishes.

Snotlout looks alright, managing the nets. Good technique. Astrid seems competent at her job, adjusting the sails in accordance to the ocean winds, steering away from the storm ahead. Ruffnut is doing a good job looking for potential catch. All the rest of the young contribute nicely. And Tuffnut is... slacking off?

Gobber speaks. "Is der a flaw in de system?"

"U-umm... Tuffnut isn't sweeping the water off the deck?"

"Precisely. Hmm, perhaps I can make a decent leader out of ye yet."

"You wish."

"Hah. Now go ahead and tell him about it."

I do.

Stepping onto the main deck, I navigate my way where Tuffnut resides. I traverse over the ropes of the sails and the slippery deck carefully. My presence has been met with a few scornful expressions from the rest of the tribe, but otherwise, nothing serious. Stepping into his line of sight, he stands up rigid. It looks forced. He smiles. "Hi-... c-cup."

"Tuff," I acknowledge. "You aren't doing your job."

"A-and... thee...at job isss?" he drunkenly replies. He looks out of it. Actually, him being drunk wouldn't be so far-fetched. His eyes gaze into sea. His mind appears to be a million seas away, as if his real life is somewhere else, and his work is interfering with it. He looks like the kind of guy who invariably prolongs their tea-break beyond the allotted time. His precious time weighs like a load on his shoulders.

"The water on the deck?"

"A-AH! Yes, t-that wooonn-e. I-I must apologise, to you... Hiccup. Eyeee had tooo much to chug l-last ni-morning," he replies. At least I had pulled him out of his stance.

"Okay. Just... make sure you get the work done."

"YES!" he over-enthusiastically replies, oblivious to himself. "Captain."

He then sweeps, or, at least, he tries to, in his crippled state. Mission accomplished. Wow. I did something. On my own accord. Well, partially, but that is good enough for me. I smile.

I was so wedged and caught up in my own world that I didn't notice the real world changing around me. And, believe me, I wanted to jump right back into my own world, and fast.

You guessed it. A storm is brewing.

"Wh-what?" shouts Astrid. "I could have sworn!"

I could have sworn too, just as well as the multiple people working the sails did. The sails were aligned more or less in the right direction away from the clouds.

The sky above is going grey, as if the clouds are moving on their own. The sea is starting to broil, its waves, growing more intense by the second. A light drizzle turns into rain, and rain turns into a downpour. Faint piercing sounds of lightning strikes enter rudely into our ears, relentless and world-eating. The winds may as well have come from a hurricane depression. This isn't good.

Fear embroils itself deep into our beating hearts. Gobber tries to amend the situation.

"Don't worry lads!" he shouts. "I am sure this a passing anomaly! Just hold on to the ship, and don't let go!"

And, as if things couldn't get any worst, a mist introduces itself into the fray, hindering any form of visionary help. Unlucky, Gobber. Your words didn't help. Everybody is panicking.

I have a slight problem right now.

A predicament, a hindrance. Oh, who am I lying to at this point? I am royally screwed.

I don't have any support to hold onto. Instead, I am in a minefield No Man's Land of ropes. One wrong move, and I will fall. The waves intensify further. Oh, shit. Why do these things always happen to me?

The overseer of the secondary overseer is in strife. "HICCUP!"

He doesn't know where I am. All he knows is that I am caught in the middle of the deck. And that I am in very serious danger.

"Oof!"

The waves ram the ship, almost threatening to capsize it.

I fall.

"QUICK! For the love of all things holy in the word, find something to hold on to!"

Don't you see I am? I am holding on to these ropes. Not for support, but for the fact that I had entangled myself.

Yikes. Gobber just grew a strain of grey hair. The waves ram again.

"AH!" he screams, then coughs. "Oh GODS! HICCUP!"

All I can hear is the frantic reverberation of the deck. I try to untangle myself, Gobber is coming to help. And—

The climax. The crisis-point. With one big thrust, the waves crash into the body of the ship once more. Almost turning a 90. I hear screams. Across the whole deck. Of pure, unadulterated fear.

I feel the wind passing through my body. I think... I think I am flying. In the air. Nobody can see me, whether I flew or not. I shriek with the power of a banshee.

 _This is it_ , I conclude. _This is how I die._

I feel my body contact the water.

And then...

Then.

I couldn't feel anything at all.

* * *

 **Act 1 - done and dusted.**

 **Readers, rejoice! Now, time for the part of the story that you came here for...**


	21. Act II - Chrysalis

**ACT II - Change**

* * *

"How I long to forget all that troubles me in the world and dip myself deep into my own fantasy."

In my current situation, anybody would find it hard-pressed to make out clearly what is happening to me outside of this unconscious state.

You see, my body came to another conclusion that it is best for the sea to determine my fate for me.

This time, I am not so cut up about it. As much as it pains me to cogitate so, I think that the decision my body this time made was the right one. For me, at least. Because. If I was conscious. I wouldn't know what to do. At all.

And, Hel, if I was conscious I'd be dead in minutes anyway. Perhaps seconds. So, it is best to leave my problems in the hands of another than to face it myself. My body has given me a dice. Better for there to be a chance than have no chance at all, I conclude. So, I rolled it. And now... here we are.

You. And I.

Due to my current limitations – me being unaware of the outside world and all of that – I can only make out two well-educated guess-facts about what is happening to my body right now:

One: I am on the verge of or already drowning.

-AND-

Two: I couldn't help but not be bothered by the aforementioned fact.

Why, you ask? Don't I want to live?

Yes.

Of course I want to live. As do all living creatures in this world.

But, at the same time, I don't. Why? I am experiencing a sort of feeling.

 _That's vague,_ you say.

Hold on. Hear me out.

I know. And it is. But, the whole feeling is quite hard to put into words. Quite hard to explain.

I have had problems explaining things before if I am not writing it down with coal and paper, but explaining things have never been this difficult.

Okay.

How will I put this? Let's see...

 _It is regret, sorrow, and relief all jumbled up into one compact letter, complete with sealing wax._ I think that is the best I can describe it. And, yes, the letter is a metaphor for a feeling.

 _Hmm, why relief?_ you attentively ask.

Well, to answer that...

If you have been paying any semblance of attention so far, I think you know perfectly well why I feel relieved. And, if you have not... well. I will give an ambiguous hint:

 ** _-It is one of the contributing factors as to why I feel this way-_**

I will leave the rest up to your interpretation.

But, for now, let me wallow away in this never-ending blackness that is my mind. Please.

That's. When I hear it.

In the corner of my mind. In its cavernous, bottomless depths of loneliness and self-obsession,

a rustle.

Oh.

Oh, gods.

I dare not breathe.

I assume a cautionary stance.

I am not alone here. That is the third fact I had conveniently forgot to mention.

"W-who are you?" I shout, directionless. "Oh gods... please. Please. Don't hurt me. Oh, Balder... please don't hurt me."

Not one response.

"Just s-say something. Please."

Total.

Everlasting.

Silence.

I can almost picture it laughing to itself in the dark at my expense. An overpowering feeling of hopelessness buries itself deep within my core.

That nobody cares to save me. Nobody.

I brace myself. For death. For Helheim itself. I close my eyes.

And...

...

Nothing happens.

Nothing but the nothingness of my mind surrounds me. I open my eyes, puzzled.

That's when I see it.

A vision.

The entity in my head wants me to see something.

And, I see... two blacksmiths in their natural habitat.

The smithy.

Well, what qualifies for one, at least. It looks to be located at the edge of the forest.

Sweat pores from the first's forehead as he works the metal. He looks like he never skips any form of arm day. He works his craft as if he had had years to hone his skills, and it would be right to assume so. He works at superhuman speed, almost working like a machine.

The second blacksmith, too, has sweat pore from his forehead. But, there is a stark contrast between them. This blacksmith looks rather lacking in the physical side of things. He gets tired a lot between swings, and he is prone to clumsiness as he hammers the iron into place. His weapons are not as polished as the first, and there is always a sort of defect in his metal.

Now, even though the two couldn't be any more different than each other in terms of raw skill, the first revers his comrade more than himself. Why? Because, for what the second lacks in talent, he more than makes up for it in his sheer passion and drive to improve.

Rain or shine, the second is there in the smithy, as faithful as a sentinel.

If he tires, even to his last tether, he never comments about it.

He only works, and keeps working.

Even should a passing cavalry pass by and shake the ground beneath him, you cannot be sure that he will look up. His enthusiasm never seems to wane.

Each morning he seems to attack alacrity as on the day he started. Each dusk it is reluctance that he puts his tools away.

And, true enough, his work would never match and equal to the first's work. In fact, his work looks rather average. But, given the right mindset, the right motivation.

The ordinary man can make a difference without having to be of extraordinary calibre.

Then, the vision shifts. Shifts into...

a mirror. The kind that only the Southerners bring for trade but were never bought because of their price.

My curiosity and inquisitiveness attempt homicide on me.

I look into the mirror.

I stare at myself for a second. I look distorted, cut around the edges.

As if... I am incomplete somehow.

I see myself look at me closely, also curious. The reflection notes my naïve young eyes. My purity, my innocence. He smiles nostalgically. I am overwhelmed. What does this have to do with anything? How does this all connect? I open my mouth, wanting to ask the meaning of this.

Then, something I didn't expect.

The image distorts, morphs into somebody else.

Now.

Green, soul-piercing eyes. Jet-black scales. Dagger-tipped talons. Beast-like teeth. Graceful stature, figure. As if... it is made for the sole purpose of flying.

I see myself turn into something bigger, taller.

A better version of me in every department.

However.

There's something off with it, something I can't quite put my finger on. The figure makes it as if I am not that much different from it. It looks different on the outside, but inside.

It... it still **feels** like me.

It opens its mouth, its face, filled with longing and hope.

"Fix yourself."

With that, it vanishes into crevices of my mind, soon to be seen again. The mirror's one saving grace, gone. Stolen. Robbed. Right underneath my nose. Now, it is a miserable husk of its former glory. The idea of what-could-have-been, snatched as quick as it came. I feel... empty, like the mirror now. Like, I can't live without it.

I scream.

My mind is collapsing, caving in on itself, being destroyed from the inside out.

Then.

I wake up.

I'd never guess what happens to me next.


	22. Cast Away

A dune's worth of sand has been stuffed into my mouth. Yes, you heard that right.

In my mouth.

I _implore_ you.

Grab a handful of sand, cram it all inside your mouth, let your taste buds marvel in its glory and tell me - how would it feel.

...

It is a buzzing and wonderful sensation you will be getting, I hope!

I... can't say the same for me.

tastes like the ocean water but even saltier. Also feels like I am chewing on the most malleable pieces of miniature rocks in the world.

And it is not enjoyable, I can tell you that much.

 _ **Urk.**_

I choke and spit and do my best to look implored, while yes, fully acknowledging that there is not one person of audience surrounding me.

I dig my hands into the coarseness of the shore, and after giving it thorough thought, I surmise that best course of action right now – my priority – is to wash away the muck from my tongue as quick as I possibly can.

And luckily for lazy ol' Hiccup, the sea conveniently situated right next to me.

 _Oh, goody._

I have grown accustomed to the taste of the sea anyway.

I lunge after it.

With one highly efforted and thought-over motion, I scoop in as much of the essence of the sea as I can into my mouth, hoping for the water fill in every nook and cranny.

It went on for a while.

And formerly, my intention was to spit it all out afterwards.

Was.

What I discovered took priority amongst all things. Even the sand dancing on my taste buds.

I...

I couldn't exactly taste... _anything._

Not the sand in my mouth, nor even the ocean water. An oxymoron from what was stated previous, I know, but, you must understand.

My mind immediately adjusted to thoughts of saltiness and distaste _before_ my taste buds even registered there was any taste, to begin with.

Confusing, indeed.

And terrifying.

If I couldn't taste anything, does that mean...? No, I couldn't bear the thought.

The second thing I then notice is that my eyesight has been hindered. Compromised.

Blurry.

The kind of blur you see when you get out of bed, then rubbing your eyes once. A smudgy texture that just somehow scrubs your entire vision off the face of the earth below you.

Perhaps, my senses are dulled.

That's it.

That has to be it.

It is the only plausible guess I could think of right now. Well, aside from being dead, of course.

And if it isn't _those two_ , then what is it?

After a while of pondering my existence on this very plane, another peculiar and discomforting fact about me that I'd rather not have discovered came to me.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that my hands have gone missing. Mainly because they are still there.

It is just... they may as well not have been hands.

They have changed.

Changed to feel more... more paw-like.

Hmph, discovered _that_ when I found out I couldn't feel my thumbs at all.

...

...

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh, gods.

My mind has not registered yet that not feeling my thumbs nor seeing my hands being black shouldn't feel this comforting or _normal_.

I should be in terrible, sensational pain. And yet, pain refuses to come.

 _ **What in the actual...?**_

Shakily, I try to stand up.

And then, of course, my body decides for me for the third time in the last twelve months that it should go against my wishes.

The difference between this decision and that of the previous two, however, was its intent.

Those ones _at least_ had backbones to lean on as reasonable verdicts, but...

This one.

Yeah, I think my body wants revenge for my severe lack of thought or care I put into everyday situations.

And this third pronouncement was its payback.

My back starts to feels abnormally heavy, and my legs fail to compensate for the sudden added weight.

Thus.

In rather spectacular fashion,

I dramatically fall on my back.

 _ **Ow.**_

Thousands of itty-bitty grains of sand soar throughout the immediate locality, caring not for where they will eventually land. The ground shivers below me as the beach mourns in distraught for its loss.

"Gods, Hiccup," my old friend Sand begins again. "Can't even do the simple act of standing up."

Fed up, my head slams onto the ground, not willing to do deal with this... heresy any longer.

And, to be fair, you would too if you were in my shoes. At least my spatial awareness was not as bad as when I first came to.

After that, I realise, in this sweet, personal moment, that I had forgotten about a specific something.

Something mighty critical about this whole scenario.

Now, before I delve deeper, I must bring further into light that, when I first came to, I failed to question the exact logic about my surroundings.

...mainly because I was feeling incredibly drowsy.

 ** _-For a convenient point of reference: how Tuffnut acted on the ship earlier-_**

So, I responded to those previous scenarios as to how my _body_ would see fit.

Operation 'try-to-get-the-taste-out' and 'try-to-collect-myself' - two objectives that require no complex thought or reason to do. Just reflex.

Now that my _mind_ is coming to, I see things from a different perspective. Is it appropriate to say that it is a 'radical' one, at that?

Can't say anything for you, but I can say for myself: it couldn't **be** any more different.

Usually, when I fall on the sand, only a few grains fly into the air.

Because I am light.

And something light couldn't have made thousands of sand grains fly.

Actually, now that I mentioned it, one too many things couldn't have happened earlier.

Like how my taste buds couldn't register earlier. Like how my back didn't feel normal earlier. Simply improbable.

And as my ponder, my eyes clear, adjusting to the brightness of the beach.

The ocean stretches before me like an inordinate quilt of magenta and cyan hills of water being held together. The hills rise and fall.

If I hadn't been a victim of a horrible sea storm, I would have loved to languish in the sea for a little while. I have experienced first-hand what the ocean can do if it starts to get rowdy. It can destroy nations and villages in one errant twitch.

Well, then again, the most innocent faces also hide the wildest.

Between instances of the blue, its spaces are dotted with peculiarly lean rocks – the foundations of which are so small yet their heights so staggeringly high, you'd find it hard-pressed to look for reasons not stand in awe as to how they hadn't collapsed yet.

Behind me I look, a forest landscape.

Tousled auburn ribbons from the trees whip about in the air. Its wind feels good, and the air smells even better. The aftermath of a light drizzle visits my wanting nostrils.

The ageing sun sinks down beneath the top and lies stuck in the middle of the trees. The many streaks of the driftwood shadow present itself in front of me as the light touches the boughs. The remnants of its dead skin and inhabitants lay about beneath its dense canopy.

I... could stay like this for a bit. Take in the clouds that mark the sky with swirls.

I was so utterly engrossed in my surroundings that I fail to acknowledge the crux of the problem.

Me.

And my alien feelings.

Self-examination is critical.

I look down.

And when I do, I see something that strikes me as a tad bit... not normal.

It is in this particular instance of sightseeing, that I find the correlation between the alien feelings I am getting and physical outlook.

I vow to myself never to find correlations with anything involving me from here on out.

I don't look human.

I had never looked this inhuman before in my entire life.

...

...good gods.

I scream.


	23. Worrying Predicament

The birds are singing,

The wind is whistling,

The sun is getting ready for bed,

And I wake from unconsciousness.

You'd think I'd feel relieved. Content. Especially since I have my satchel with me.

But, unfortunately for your protagonist, no relief is to be had.

Why, you ask?

Well. I wake up,

Only to find myself nonchalantly placed in a body that isn't mine.

Answer me. How would you feel?

Opinions will vary, I know, but I will echo my thoughts to you as clear as day.

It's **horrifying**. As horrifying as the scream that came after it. It was as if someone had put in a bear's throat into my mouth. Almost... a roar.

My tiny mind can't possibly comprehend itself residing in a body that is poles apart from what it was mere hours ago.

So, to sum it all up in two words:

 _"Ah, shit."_

I drift, no, hurtle into deep sleep then and there.

Sheer tremor served with a side dish of nagging exhaustion were the only drives for this sorry 'Viking'.

There would be no dreams or nightmares of the sort this time.

Only darkness.

* * *

After an inspired lap of tossing and turning, I wake from my slumber. How do I know this? The shapes of the sand I had fainted on. They look like ripples.

I look to the sky, praying inside to see any sort of daylight.

The sky has a mix of auburn and magenta – clouds, drifting in small pockets. A waning dawn.

Excellent. Why?

Because, what I am about to do next will determine for me either life or death. Satisfied?

I decide that I need to make sense of this predicament, fast. I am going to need water. No, not sea water. A stable body of one. I need to know how I look. And I am going to use the reflection of the water to do just that.

 _But why, Hiccup_? Well, I will tell you what Dad told me.

First impressions are important.

Be it a meeting with your employer, or a meeting with different tribes, your looks will govern the opposite party's overall view of yourself and the people you represent. If you look completely ridiculous, they will look with scorn. If you look respectable, they will return you the gesture. David didn't get the memo.

The situation I am in is kind of like that, but more... mortal. What I am trying to explain here is: I need to determine whether I look as heinous and dangerous as a troll or as exploitable and harmless as a sheep. And, while neither of them seems appealing first impressions to me, the latter intuition at least gives me a shot, however slim, at survival.

I know I am not human. Humans don't have intrusive tails with movable fins, nor do they have jawlines as wide as a piece of French baguette.

Although my previous appearance was never really that appealing to begin with, at least people will know to draw the line on whether I am harmless or not. With this body, I can never be too sure.

If some random chap, say, a hunter, was to waltz into my vicinity, it would be a good 50/50 that he either has enough warrant to attack me or tolerates my existence. I love the odds of the coin toss, but I'd rather not take the chance when my life is on the line.

There would also be a good chance that the forest is being pre-occupied by animal predators too, so, who's to say they haven't tracked down my scent yet?

Either way, both scenarios would require me to collect myself and move.

So, I do. Or, at least, make my best effort to.

Since my two bottom legs were recently put out of commission, I resort to using the four-legged stance. Surprise, surprise, it works well. Too well. As if it was meant to be. A final nail in the coffin to my denial.

I make work with it.

After a few stumbles, I somehow manage to set a reasonable pace. For someone who is learning the ropes for the first time, at least.

I enter the density of the auburn forest.

I sincerely hope that Gobber doesn't find me yet.

* * *

Prone.

That's the position I have to be in. Otherwise, the pack of wolves standing in front of me would turn tails and splatter my blood then and there.

I creep by.

 _Don't mind me... I am just... minding my own business. While you, sextet... should mind your ow-_.

 ***-=snap=-***

 **goes the twig.**

Ah, gods. Abysmal effort, Hiccup. Abysmal.

Their ears perk. They head towards my direction. They growl.

I gulp.

Here's what they will have in the future that I won't.

A filling dinner.

Spatial awareness.

And a pulse.

Whatever remaining hope I have left for myself dissipates similarly to how foam would so easily vanish along the ocean coastline. I close my eyes. I brace myself.

That's when, for the third time these past six months, that I bear no consequence for my incompetence. Instead, what I receive in return was...

Fear?

What I assume to be the pack alpha moans something unintelligible.

 _Okay_ , I reason with myself. _That's fine. Wolves do that all the time. Right?_

Wrong. What they do next is something that subverts my expectations completely.

Right when I was trying to make heads and tails out of their antics, the rest follow suit with their leader. Moaning.

 _Alright... I guess what the alpha does, the pack follows._

 _Right?_

Wrong again. What I hear next is...

...

high-pitched whining?

It escapes their maws.

What's going on?

Bewildered and perplexed, I slowly open my eyes, still in a coward's stance. That's when I finally notice something about myself that I didn't pay much attention to due to the initial shock.

My height.

I am towering over them. Every single one of them. My shadow acts as their balcony.

When I was human, they'd be three-quarters of my height. With this form, I am taller than the combined effort of four of them being stacked together.

They flee. The leaves of flora wave in their motion.

I have surmised three things out of this encounter.

 **1.** **I am intimidating as all Hel.**

 **2.** **Any human that comes into contact with me would be justified in killing me.**

 **3.** **I am going to die by said humans.**

Ah, shit.

I need to find that lake, and fast. I need to know who I am. I need to know what I am.

And so turns the initially sneaky endeavor into a racing sprint.

Each twig I snap makes me die a little inside.


	24. Stream

All four of my feet beseech for a break.

I don't give them any, though.

They plea, oh, how hard they plea.

 _Oh, gods, Hiccup. Cut us some slack, will you? We are already feeling numb!_

I don't mean to sound like a grade-A asshole, but, unfortunately, my feet will get little say in this situation. I have bigger, more long-term concerns in mind.

Such as me getting out of this threat-infested forest alive.

So, they can rot down there for all I care.

...

That'd be a tad bit extreme, actually.

Anyway.

I have little doubt that there will be no hunters lingering about. Hopefully, whatever part of the Archipelago this forest is located in would have the same mentality as Berk does: no food, no hunters. I pray for that outcome. I had no stag or deer or elks for that matter pass me by so far, so I take that as a good sign. The cynical part of me, however, suggests that there are no animals out and about due to the sun dying.

I sincerely hope that that isn't the case.

Trotting like a horse would, I lope through the fleshy undergrowth of the forest. The living soil caresses my... paws with its soothing skin. Ferns and vines dominate this part, and it is making an awful lot of unwanted noise. Which in turn, equates to potential attention. I'd have been craving for attention any other day, but, in an unfortunate turn of events, I am just... not _feeling_ it today, you know? It is as if this was a matter of life and death for me.

I run and continue searching. A feeble attempt, I know, but you miss every shot you don't take, right?

The sun descends from the sky, going lower, lower. Yellow is slowly being absorbed out of the sky's colour palette. I guess nature prefers to work with gloomier colours now, huh?

And I **still** find time to find some humour out of this. Fantastic trait, I know.

Oh, and to top it all off, I realise something else as well! I haven't even remotely considered where I am supposed to even set up shop yet. Hooray!

My body produces the animalistic equivalent of a hysteric laugh.

 ** _-Urghr urghr urghr urghr urghr urghr-_**

Gods, I sound as insane as Bucket now! As if things couldn't get any _better_.

Oh, just who am I fooling here?

I am so screwed.

The Sun is at point break of finally setting, and I still haven't a clue where any lake is.

There goes plan B running around frantically for an hour, hoping that I eventually strike gold. Yeah, not one of my finest moments. And, unfortunately for me, I didn't have a plan C in mind beforehand.

 _Ugh,_ I groan in my head.

There, I made peace with myself. I am not going to accomplish anything for today.

Thus, rather flatly, I collapse my form onto the ground and plop my head on the ground. Growling.

Can my vocal chords do anything but make growling noises now? I decide to test it out.

Throat, I command you to say... 'Hiccup'!

 ** _-Grahwl-_**

Not what I quite had in mind, but sure.

Oh, man, this is just _rich_.

Time to add to the burning pile another issue I had discovered since I converted.

I can't talk.

Excellent. Writing runes on the dirt as my only form of communication with other people is sure going to be time-friendly, convenient and fun. Besides nodding or shaking, that is.

Gods, am I taking this well. I know Dad wouldn't. He would have cut his wrist then and there. I mean, does this body even have a wrist? Do these stubby wonders that are my four legs even have joints?

 _I am asking the relevant questions here._

I continue my search.

Gods, do these woods keep going on and on. As much as I hate to admit, the Roman books do not lie. It is repetitive and dull.

Then. Out of blue, as always. Something relieving happens.

Without my knowledge, or consent, I subconsciously perk my right ear. The sounds of dripples and earth enter soon afterwards. I smile.

 _Running water._

Which would mean a stream. And a stream would mean... a **lake**.

Finally. Good news for a change.

If I were to list any of the few positives I have for turning into this form,

 ** _-which, I mind you, is not a whole lot-_**

it would be my heightened sense of hearing. Gods-bless.

I might have actually tolerated this form if the cons hadn't severely outweighed the pros. Unfortunately, that seems to be the case. Tough luck.

I run east towards the stream.

The sky is turning magenta by the second. I hope my clairvoyance doesn't suffer because of it.

Finally, after two long hours of finding purchase in my inner-enthusiasm, I may have finally found it.

It took me but two minutes to find it.

Even though I stumbled making my way here a countless number of times, I had covered more ground than anyone on Berk possibly could in its entire lifetime.

Interesting. Perhaps this body I had been stuffed into had its roots stem from the deer family? Maybe, an odd cross between lizard and stag? How curious.

The sun is on its last legs, hailing final farewells to the woods before final descending for a good night's rest. It is on the brink. My heart beats faster. I follow the running water down, down until I reach a lake.

The stream lay before me like a broad belt of grey and silver brocade, with green moss getting by in between. I realise that I am banking on the stream not being just another lip of the sea.

Anxiety. He is doubling down on my heart again.

And I am not sure whether it can take it.

I move on regardless.

Just as the Sun was about to reach its breaking point, I finally find it. The stream halts for a relatively steep drop, but not enough to equate to a waterfall. The dribbling of the water gave it away.

I make a break for it.

With what little strength I have left, I lunge for the lake. On sight, my body screams to me for water. It is going to have to wait. My eyes need to see this.

With one paw above my head, I hover my head over the water's shimmer.

The first thing I note is my eyes.

They. Are. Huge.

They also change depending on the mood.

Happy, and they explode in an awning of black-pupiled goodness. Distressed, and they turn into little more than slits. You could fit a coin in there.

I'd stop myself if I could, but Loki just couldn't help himself not to get a kick out of this, could he? Hel, if the gods themselves were interfering with my life, I wouldn't be surprised.

That crosses out the possibility of me being anything remotely related to deer. The outer part is primarily of the colour green, with varying hues of it spread across its canvas. In the middle of it all laid nothing but pure black. I have not seen anything this black before.

Nothing scary, though.

Not worth it for any hunter to stab me square in the belly just yet.

Next, my face. Gods, my face.

It is so **flat**.

I wouldn't say it looks intimidating, though, not by any stretch. Much like the black scales that don the rest of my body, the face is donning it too. The little curved squares, circles and ovals that plague it. I note it all.

Could I be...?

No. No need to be so hasty to make judgments yet.

I crack open my mouth.

Woah.

Okay, you. Here's something fun, a poem.

 _Gums galore,_

 _Never seen before,_

 _No one speck of white at all, how sore._

 _Yeah, it's me,_

 _Plain as can be,_

 _With not a sight of teeth to see!_

Did you catch the meaning?

It is rather blunt.

I have no teeth. Well, isn't that swell. I don't have teeth. I am toothless.

Fine. Soft foods for me then, moving o—

 **SNAP!**

 **scream the teeth as they jut out of my gums.**

I jolt high, covering my mouth with both paws. What was that?

Reluctantly, I move the paws from my mouth.

It reveals a set of sword-tipped teeth. I could impale my tongue if I am not careful. That's great and all, but, what could explain the retractable teeth.

I play with my mouth before finding some new muscles. I move them.

 _In, out, in, out,_ went my teeth.

Huh.

I guess that's a use for it.

I wonder what else?

Ah, my back, yes.

I turn.

I have never regretted turning my back before this hard in my entire life.

Wings.

Yes.

Wings. They sprout from the top and end at the bottom. Black.

It is rather distracting.

No.

No.

This can't be. Life doesn't hate me that much, does it?

 _Hate to break it to you, Hiccup. But it does._

I can't go to Gobber like this. _Dad_ can't see me like this.

Gods.

 **I am a dragon.**

I scream for the second time.


	25. Roar

**_This is an AU where Vikings are not familiar with the existence of Night Furies. They do not attack in raids at all, and only exist in accounts, which are considered to be a load of poppycock!_**

* * *

Am...

Am I seeing this right?

I blink my eyes once again just to check. I would rub them if I could, but, given my current physical anatomy, I don't think that's possible. My tail could, but I am not keen to fine out.

 _Yes, Hiccup. You are._

 _You are just in denial._

I attempt to contemplate and grasp, struggling to drag myself back into the reality of the situation.

My brain tells me yes, but my heart is telling me no. I don't know to whom do I listen more to.

So, I meet at a crossroads. I am hovering above water, but I am not looking. Better?

Oh, gods, who am I proving here?

Either I shrivel up and become a faucet of salt water or I face up to my problems.

I am half-tempted for the former to be put into fruition.

 ** _-ARGH!-_**

 ** _I roar in frustration._**

After a needlessly extensive period of flailing and thrashing my arms in the air out of sheer frustration, I fall flat on the ground.

Defeated.

Dust from the fall fills the air.

I breathe a long, fed-up sigh.

This is not going to work out for me, is it?

I don't even know what _breed_ of dragon I am.

None of the dragons I have seen documented have even remotely come close to what I look like, and no, I am not counting Windwalkers. Those only exist in fable.

Which, by the way, only makes it all the more tempting for a hunter to bag me home.

 ** _"Oi! Boys! I just bagged me the world's most pitiful dragon!"_**

I can hear it as clear as day.

The urge to escape into my own world grows greater and greater by the second.

I try to.

Feeling my ears droop and picturing my pupils broadening, I bury my head underneath the cover of my form, temporarily safe from the horrors of the real world.

I purr uneasily.

My tail finds its way around my form.

Gods.

I am finding increasing parallels between myself and a common household pet, and I am not fond of it, by any stretch.

I ignore the problem for now.

Because,

for now...

I'd like for my eyes to get heavy and for my brain to forget everything that has transpired in the world for a bit.

I do.

* * *

A flock of birds fly overhead me.

That's what my ears tell me, anyway. I will take their word for it.

I stretch rather blearily, smacking my lips. A good night's rest is one where I feel or experience nothing at all. Last night was one of those nights.

I'd rather not charge my problems today so head-on. So, quite lazily, I groggily open my eyes, and sit on my hindlegs. An amusing sight for the common viewer, but, for Vikings...

It would be their worst nightmare.

With great effort, I properly open my eyes.

I had not got a good chance to take in the environment because of my distress the previous day.

So, this is a good moment for any to take, and I cease it.

The lake before me makes itself known to me by sheer looks alone. It looks, dare I say it, impressive. You will never get these sorts of vistas anywhere near Berk.

The silver-blue panorama lay without one ripple or fracas, as if time itself within the lake had been frozen.

The soft, gentle overcast sky only compliments it further.

Behind the sight lay a range so generous and plentiful it would rival the number of mountains any Viking had seen in their entire life.

A mist haunts peacefully at the top of the array, soothing and calming the rough textures of the crags, elegantly blending two and two together to form the word 'beauty'.

On its surface, broken pieces of the mountain horizon intricately woven together to create a supple, striking mosaic.

And those were only the 's's.

The sun threatens to rise above the horizon, firstly cascading a straitlaced bombardment of colours that are flung over the sky with terrible alacrity. It shone on the lake below; its radiant, all-knowing glow scintillated and beamed: the legacy of the sun.

It makes me nostalgic for a life that I've never had.

I lament by looking downwards – the universal language conveying: _"I have really done it now."_

I sigh.

And then,

Once again.

Something intrudes me in my deep, personal moment.

I was half-expecting it to be Dad, but, fortunately, that wouldn't be.

Basic animalistic nature intrudes instead.

And.

When I lay my eyes on the lake. Oh **boy**.

I salivate with what remaining water I had left in my body.

 ** _-Of which, I can tell you personally: it wasn't much-_**

I lunge at the river as if it was contemptuously brandishing my notebook.

Greedily, I gobble up as much water as I humanly... draconly can, in one go, letting it wash down my yearning throat. It ends my dry smell.

I drew a breath of satisfactory relief, my paw, caressing my throat.

Then, for the second time. Nature intrudes yet again, and this time, she has come knocking on my belly's door.

It growls.

I had been purely running off on adrenaline these past two days. So, it never occurred to me just how famished I was until this instance of peace and quiet. I try to ignore it.

It only growls louder.

My front paws find their way onto to its surface – a frail attempt at stopping the sound.

I grumble to myself – a hint of desperation in the tone.

Now, just... _where_ am I going to get food in the first place?

I doubt forest berries would fill me up. So... what then?

I can't hunt.

There is nothing hunt _for_.

And, even if I do find game, I highly doubt that I would be able to finish the job. I haven't hunted in _years_ , and even when I did, I was mostly reliant on Gobber to do all the work. Setting the traps, combing for foot tracks - all of that stuff. Traps are out of the question in this form.

I ponder in thought for a bit.

My eyes drift to the lake. _Oh, sweet, sweet temptation!_

Deep inside, a brewing battle. The two sides in my head.

 _No!_

 _But..._

 _I don't know how to catch just one._

 _You are not exactly teeming with choices here._

 _I know, but—_

 _You miss every shot you don't take._

 _..._

 _Right?_

 _You..._

 _Used your own words against yourself. I know._

 _Great. Just great. How would this do for my public image?_

 _Do you even have one?_

 _..._

 _..._

 _Good point._

I decide to give fishing a go. Not like I can do anything.

Not yet.

I stumble to the lake shore, eyes gleaming for that perfect opportunity.

I wait unwearyingly.

It was then, after I estimate what was about around ten minutes...

I see it. The golden opportunity.

A fish, swimming obliviously near the seemingly innocent shore, not knowing that its life is about to end.

I cease it.

Within a moment's notice, my claws slash at the aquatic. It was a reaction so quick and silent that I was left flabbergasted once I had done the deed. Am I really _that_ fast now?

Sometimes, it scares me, this new body.

I bring my paw up to access the damage.

A clean cut. It displays not one sign of struggle or stress. It remains idle. Dead. So fast was its death it did not even acknowledge it. I huff in part-worry, part-satisfactorily.

Gods, am I fast now.

I play with my food like how a toddler would, realising yet another problem that emerges from the kill.

Now just where in the Hel am I going to cook it?

As much as I concede that I am an animal now, inside – on one side, at least – I still possess human consciousness, with a capacity to adopt basic human mentality.

Breathing fire is out of the question. I don't know _how_.

Oh, by Odin.

Do you understand the struggle?

My human side intervenes in my plight, screaming at me:

 ** _-Don't you even think about eating it raw!-_**

The other side, the more... beastly side, roars at me:

 ** _-Embrace your calling – embrace the beast inside!-_**

Ah, decisions, decisions.

Which do I pick?

...

Ugh.

Dad is going to hate me for this.

But I can't argue with my basic animalistic instincts.

They are screaming at me so loud that it may make my ears bleed.

And I'd rather not be another Sigrunn. Thus,

I devour it.

Munch it.

Then, abruptly, I stop. The fish flesh, still residing on my tongue.

I pull my eyes wide open in shock.

To my bewilderment and _surprise_...

It doesn't taste half bad.

No.

No, no, no.

There's more to it than that.

It tastes **heavenly**.

My taste buds lavish in the purity of the catch – the freshness. Its smooth, baby-skin texture. Its moist, refreshing underbelly. Its crispy bones. Its tang of sourness with a delicate, subtle hint of saccharinity.

So.

Needless to say?

I am glad I went against Dad.

I could get used to _this_.

But alas, the high was not meant to last.

I need to swallow it _someday_.

I disappointingly gulp.

I need to get my paws on another fish soon.

So far today, I feel content. I have made way with about twenty percent of my problem. And with eighty more to go, I feel optimistic.

Oh.

Who am I kidding?

That twenty percent was the easiest part of the whole ordeal. The eighty percent will be the hardest.

If only I could use the notebook in my satchel next to me.

I brought it along, and, to be frank, there will be not much use for the notebook for quite some time. If at all.

I have no opposable thumbs, and my paws look rather flat.

Cursed be these stubs for fingers.

After a few seconds figuring out what to do with myself, I decide to make mental notes to myself about my objectives. It is good to think ahead, is all.

 **CURRENT OBJECTIVES FOR HICCUP HORRENDOUS HADDOCK THE THIRD, REV. 2 (W.I.P.):**

 **(a)** **Answer to nature's call** **(done)**

 **(b)** **Figure out what has happened to me.**

 **(c)** **Find a place to set up camp.** **(done)**

 **(d)** **Avoid any human contact for the time being.**

 **(e)** **ESPECIALLY avoid contact with Berk.**

 **(f)** **Scout for any threats.**

 **(g)** **Make peace with my form.**

 **(h)** **Try not to cry.**

 **(i)** **Cry a lot.** **(done)**

I have put a lot of work into my cheat sheet, and I have put a lot of work for _myself_ by doing this cheat sheet.

If all goes well, I may complete... forty percent of the work by the end of the weekend.

However.

That is saying that if it all goes well.

Realistically, many things will go awry. I mean, I wasn't given the status of 'minute' in Berk for nothing.

I sigh.

Suddenly, off the distance from the place I came from, I hear something rude.

Something intruding.

Something concerning.

A horn.

Granted, a horn that is near inaudible, but a horn nonetheless. Its deep bellows are what give it away.

I also hear...

A ship.

At the beach.

My left ear perks up to get as much sound in as possible.

The horn blows again.

This time, I can hear it much clearer now, now that I have placed all of my mental power onto my ears.

It sounds like...

It sounds familiar. Almost hitting close to home. But I can't fathom exactly why, - can't place my finger on it. Why?

I listen further.

This time.

I catch its specific undertones and texture. It sounds meaty but rough, a culling for any more war for some, but this one seems too deep for that.

No.

It is hearty. It is fat. It is a bit crooked sounding.

Oh, no.

It is _Berk's_.

How?

How could they have managed to track me down?

Gods.

Oh, gods.

Gobber can't see me like this. _Dad_ can't see me like this.

They will unknowingly _kill_ me.

I quickly decide that all of my effort put into that cheat sheet has to be put into the bin.

Why, you ask?

I had just cut out all of the objectives on said list, only leaving a single, new objective behind.

 **CURRENT OBJECTIVE FOR HICCUP HORRENDOUS HADDOCK THE THIRD, REV. 3 (W.I.P.):**

 **(a)** **Run.**


	26. Hollow

And run I did.

I intend to run away to a faraway place, away from Berk. Away from my only family and friends.

It doesn't matter how many are there, how few.

It still hurts all the same.

Fishlegs, Camicazi, Gobber, Dad. I may never get to see them again.

And, for now?

I'd prefer it to stay this way.

I can't shake the feeling off. Of just... feeling so ashamed. Of my body.

And... more so of myself.

I shouldn't have fallen off the ship, leading things to transpire the way they do now. I shouldn't have left Dad in a state of utter distress because of the way I am. I shouldn't have let Gobber down at the smithy for all of these years. I shouldn't have left Berk in a state of disarray, now that the heir is gone. I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have.

I have transformed, quite brusquely, into a Viking's worst enemy. I am not fond of it, but I'd have to tolerate it soon enough.

But. I ask you.

Please respond honestly.

How on earth are you supposed to like something, when you already abhor it so much?

I can't gage the idea. Can you?

I don't want them to see me this way.

No.

I want to spare them from their suffering, and mine.

Through the flesh of the undergrowth, through the forest's moss-covered residents, through its despondent grey hue.

I run.

As fast as I possibly can.

It is going to rain today. In more ways than one.

Tears trickle down my cheek.

* * *

I hold not a clue of how long I ran, but it looks to be a far away distance from where I started.

Slowing down my sprint, I heave a sigh of relief.

They can't get to me this fast.

Can they?

I try to suppress my overstated worries with understated logic.

 ** _-Of course not, you oaf-_**

All right, then.

Some burden lifts itself from my heart.

Now, considering that I've been running non-stop for the better part of thirty minutes, you'd think I'd be breathless and on my knees, pleading and entreating for air – in a state that is a bit worse for wear. But, in an unusual turn of events – one that is rather shocking, really.

I don't exactly feel... anything.

Not panting, nor wheezing.

I feel how I would normally feel, jotting down my notes. Granted, I can still sense that my heart is beating like a how a tongue-lolling dog would maniacally breathe, but, generally, I don't feel tired at all.

At least there is something I can take from this... a pro to add to the severely one-sided list: I don't suffer from fatigue easily. Now it's... three pros against tens of thousands of cons.

I'd say that is good progress.

No?

I wander around the density of the forest for a jiff, while, yes, acknowledging that is the dead of the night, and, yes, my eyes somehow had somehow found a way to make its own clairvoyance without a light source.

Should I make it four, then?

In a planned, calculated decision, the night reckons an atmosphere that is as desolate and despondent as possible would be a fantastic idea, for this particular day, for this particular hour. And, for all intents and purposes, I have to commemorate him: at least it keeps to the mood consistent. How eloquently dramatic.

I near a tree. Not just any tree, of course, the forest is an abundance.

It is the tiny yet cosy hollow sitting at the bottom of the tree that colours me intrigued.

It makes itself as modest as naturally possible. It is, by all accounts, even by a dragon's standards, average. It is just cavernous and lofty enough for a dragon to fit inside of it, but not enough to make one comfortable, like a public well. You know that there is probably going to be gods-know-what muck down there, but you know that its depths are a wealthy one and mostly safe.

So, you can't complain.

Gobber and co. are possibly fighting tooth and nail to save my skin, trudging through every terrain imaginable because of me, and what do I do? And, what do _I_ do? I decide that this is a good time and place as any to catch up on some much-needed beauty sleep.

Am I trying to deliberately be the bane of Dad's existence?

Because it seems like it.

But, at the same time, I think I'm sparing him of the incredibly sensitive sum of information that his son has been turned to Berk's worst nightmare.

What he wants, I am not too sure. I think he wants closure on me.

Oh my, _closure_. The way that came out was really cold.

I burrow myself into the tree.

I mean, I guess it's cosy.

I sleep.

Or.

At least _try_ to.

The wind is making an awful lot of ruckus. Toss, turn, toss, turn.

After ten straight minutes of tossing and turning, I'm left not being sure of what exactly there is to do. I know I need some rest, especially from today. I... just can't. Some outer supernatural force is interfering with my life and wellbeing, and it just won't let down!

...

Alright. Fine. I'll come clean. I can't sleep,

because I am scared.

Of what Berk might do to me if they get hold of my throat.

As to turn away from that burning pile of emotional mess, I decided that I needed a distraction.

My satchel probably has one. Wherever I am, whatever I am, that satchel is always near me, and never leaves my sight. I open it to the best of my ability.

Having giant claws is severely overrated.

And, what do I find in its little crevices?

My notebook.

Albeit soaked and drenched by the little ocean swim it had.

I try to take it.

...

Ugh.

My paws.

They can't really _fit_.

What is that age-old English expression again?

 _Ah, yes._

 ** _-It fits like a glove-_**

 ** _Or is it supposed to be the other way around?_**

 ** _The small tinkering and tid-bits of their language gets me all riled up._**

 ** _So confusing._**

 ** _I need more English reading material._**

And it wouldn't be as if I'd be able to grab hold of it, anyway.

Its 'fingers' are annoyingly tiny as well. Even as Hiccup V1, my fingers could stretch two times further than this sorry display.

Deciding that reaching for my book using my current assets would be fruitless, I grab hold of the _whole_ bag and flip it over.

A waterfall of knowledge and all things natural falls from its pit.

Seawater and sand have interwoven in between my books, and my notebook looks to be particularly hospitable on that end. Climatically, my charcoal stick falls last. It thumps softly on the ground.

I take the notebook. Thankfully, my laughably pathetic fingers could accommodate for its presence.

I open it.

 ** _NOTES_**

 ** _This is property of which belongs to Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third._**

 ** _Any sign of discrepancy or abuse done to this book will hence by be reported to Chief Stoick._**

 ** _This is to be given to_ FUTURE generations _of Vikings when I pass._**

 ** _A FOREWARNING_**

 ** _If read on its own, it would look like a convoluted collection of blabbering and rants. I may suggest that readers should seek guidance from a village blacksmith before consulting with the aforementioned contents._**

 ** _CONTENTS_**

 ** _Interesting Things of Note from Countries Afar (WIP) - 1_**

 ** _The Bola Launcher - 8_**

 ** _The Seed Driller - 12_**

 ** _The Water Pump - 18_**

 ** _The 'Boomerang' - 23_**

Gods, I almost forgot just how cheesy the introduction is.

I carry on reading. Page after page, letting out a snort after almost every one, it is truly a wonder how a Viking like me would have been able to fit in with the tribe. Aside from blood, I may as well have been raised in a monastery or somewhere else of the sort.

I would delve in further, but alas, my body seems to have much more interesting things to attend to.

Like me getting some actual rest.

Need it to stay sane - and I am not exactly the sanest of people right now.

Letting out a yawn and feeling my eyes water, I adjust the back of my wings to get comfortable before my much-needed slumber.

I close my eyelids.

And, before I know it, the world left my consciousness.


	27. Mouse-Sprung Trap

Within my lucid, unearthly dreamscape, at the edges of my mind, I hear the words:

 ** _Do you enjoy it?_**

I look around in maniacal fashion. I see the black-graced walls of never-ending – the cracks and the imperfections surrounding me, but not the source of the voice. Where's it coming from?

I get the answer sooner than I expect.

A great, whopping black enters my hindered frame – a form of black so vast it rivaled even the darkest areas of my mind.

There exists no fracture, no crevasse within the void. Just pure darkness.

That reminds me of a certain someone.

A someone that frequently visits me at night with no clear motivation other than to give me miniature heart attacks.

And it is working.

It asks me again.

 ** _Do you?_**

An eerily familiar tone inside that voice makes itself known to me. It is gnawing away at my conscience. The feminine voice buried beneath all of that sinister tenor is what gets me. Oh, as well as its draconic frame.

Is it what I think it is?

Then, a moment of clarity washes over me.

 _It's... it's you!_ I squeak.

The entity. The one that stalks me in my nightmares. The one that stares at me, passive, doing absolutely nothing. Merely at the sidelines. Looking at me. Of all the things I encounter in prison of my mind, _it_ is the one that frights me the most.

Now, it is here. Speaking to me. Staring at me square in the face. As if judging me for something terribly wrong that I committed.

 ** _-Sorry, but I must correct you there, if you will – several wrongs-_**

 ** _Yes, Hiccup. It is me. Who else would it be? Would you rather for Anxiety to come aknocking?_**

 _No, no, gods, no. Anybody but. I just... what is it you want?_

 ** _Oh, dear Hiccup. I only want the simple pleasures in life._** It's head swirls around, admiring the surroundings of my mind before placing focus onto me. **_One of those pleasures being... hmm. How should I put this?_**

It sits. Its paws, putting itself together. It motions downwards, like how South-Eastern Buddhists would pray. Their faces look kind of funny. Small eyes. Big smile. They look wholesome.

Oh, man. Trudging through irrelevant thoughts again! Will I ever let myself go?

 ** _You haven't._**

I stare at it as if it had something on its face. Does it—

 ** _Yes, Hiccup. I do hear you. In fact, I hear everything. I hear every thought, I hear every action, I hear every single insecurity you have about yourself. You can't hide, darling. It would be fruitless to feign yourself._**

I gulp. It smiles in response.

 ** _Good. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, how should I be putting this...?_**

A beat.

 ** _Are you... enjoying yourself?_**

I stand flabbergasted, frowning, struggling to decipher its game.

 _What? W-w-what do you mean?_

 ** _Oh, Hiccup. Do I have to clarify? Your newfound strength and physical prowess. Your perfect remedy of tentativeness and intimidation. Your sleek form. The very air you exhale. What you stand as now – it is the textbook example of a faultless being. How enthralling must it be to be in your position..._**

 _What? Are you saying I_ enjoy _this?_

 ** _What's it to you?_**

A true frown forms on my face now. My teeth, unclenching from its gummy depths.

 _Well._ I start. _I don't. In fact, I hate this form. I **despise** it._

 ** _Oh? Is that so?_** it questions in a playful tone.

 _Yes. And I'd rather be dead to be in a body made by the likes of you._ The way it came out was more aggressive than I initially expected, but the meaning comes across all the same. And yet, the thing still... smiles. Why?

 ** _I see that one of my gifts I have given to you is working._**

Now, I am completely confused. Isn't this some sort of twisted curse?

 _Oh yeah, and what is that?_

 ** _A spine._**

Ah, gods, I had just about had it with these riddles.

 _And what in Odin's name does that mean?_

 ** _Hiccup. The answer is more clear-cut than you think. Tell me, why_** **do _you get so cooked up when somebody talks shit about you in front of your face nowadays?_**

It puts emphasis on the word 'shit'.

 _Oh. I..._

 ** _Do you understand, now, dear Hiccup? I designed you to be this way. "I want to be a better version of myself," you said once._**

Gods, is it backpedaling to what I said years ago?

 ** _I am afraid it would seem so._**

It breaks eye contact with me, lifting its left... paw up, almost seeming too besotted for its wrist.

 ** _My word, would you look at the time? I am sorry, I wish I could spare a bit more time in your company. But, I am afraid that I have other matters to attend to. Remember now: choose wisely. These coming days, you will need a clear mind, now, more than ever._** it speaks. **_See you soon._**

Before I even utter a word, which was mostly going to various questions, it vanishes from plain sight. Leaving unanswered questions in the air. The most pressing being: 'Who in all the four realms are you?'

But, it would seem that it would never be.

I hope I don't see her soon.

Then. Just as I was beginning to calm, a sinking feeling courses through my veins.

Ah, a tell-tale sign.

 _'Of what exactly?' you ask._

All right. I will tell you:

I am slowly coming to.

* * *

The blinding beam of yellow light, streaming from the many little holes the tree possesses. The rays of the early morning fall slanting through them.

That's what my eyes are first treated to.

And it gods-damned hurts.

 ** _-Arghwl-_**

 ** _I growl._**

I suppose that the overexposure to the dark colours from last night had some sort of consequence. My eyes weren't ready.

The shock wouldn't last for very long, though. My eyes adapt and adjust at an unnatural speed. It's uncanny.

My body decides to stretch.

My tail straightens. My back peaks, a sickening crack to follow through later. The wings above my frame spreads out on its own. I involuntarily groan. My lips smack.

Gods, everything feels so foreign now. I don't think I feel get used to this form, no matter how long I stay in it. Couple of weeks, a decade. The initial feeling will still be there. And it will haunt me for the rest of my days.

...

Tad bit of a stretch there, I know, but the meaning conveyed is still the same.

I awkwardly stumble out of my makeshift 'tent'.

The sun does its work, illuminating the vicinity with obligatory ease. Patches of light fall through the forest balcony's cracks, landing on the flesh of the overgrowth like miniature lakes of sweet honey. The fauna had risen from their slumbers; the birds sing songs of hope and love. With that, it made the forest feel alive. It feels quite cosy. I stretch some more in my newfound space.

I was about to blissfully stroll around the forest before my heart reminds myself:

 ** _-Aren't you supposed to be running away?-_**

Ah, yes.

Thank you for the reminder.

I never knew running away for your life could be so _stressful_ , so much so that you start to slowly lose your mind! Now, who would have thought?

I even have the time to make japes and gibes, just like this one! HAH!

...

Gods, I really _am_ losing my mind.

I pack up my stuff before bleatingly and belatedly venturing deeper into the forest.

As I trudge along the flora of the forest, the vegetation only seems to get thicker, and it doesn't let up. All around me, green ferns, green berries, green leaves, green... everything. Only in Southern territories do you see this much green. I wonder. Did the sea waft me off course from Berk to somewhere near Rome...? I can only speculate. And that makes Berk's search and rescue mission all the more impressive. I doubt the Berkians, or Dad, for that matter, really cared for me. I think they are just hunting for my Haddock blood.

Oh, Balder. What a sour topic.

I need to distract myself.

 ** _-A notable observation:_**

 ** _I am not on any island, according to the length and girth of its forest. One might speculate that I am somewhere inland, near Rome-_**

 ** _-Speculation:_**

 ** _I most likely am-_**

I think that is a good effort to forget things.

No?

I charge on regardless.

Morning became noon, noon became afternoon, then...

You probably know what's next.

Just like the sky at the beach, the colour palette of the sky has become more or less the same. A few minor tweaks here and there, but really, it still has the same effect.

It's gorgeous.

The forest on the other hand?

Not so much.

I have seen not one animal in sight, and it is really starting to get irritating.

 _Just... where am I?_

The forest responds with indifference and the sounds of insects. I sigh.

Gods, my stomach is killing me right now. Grumbling and grumbling, it is all that it ever does to get my attention. And it is working. I am _ravenous_.

I suppose me feeling more light-headed than usual holds some correlation with it.

Ah, yes.

No energy for my body to farm; which, in turn, means: no energy at all. No energy at all, means: I am going to pass out... sooner or later. And I wouldn't want that now, would I?

I sit in frustration. My paw finds its way to my belly.

Gods, I am screwed. Even if a deer were to pass by, I highly doubt that I'd be able to catch it. I am just that clumsy.

Finally, a single, lingering thought surfaces like a projection in the blank slate of my mind:

 ** _-I may as well finish what I started-_**

I march on, wary of Berk's impendent search and rescue team soon closing in on my tail. Figuratively, and literally.

Every few instances, I take a quick look behind – just in case. I wouldn't want Berk to get the drop on me, just yet. I need to follow through with my master plan.

To get as far, far away from Berk as I draconly can.

In fact, I was so infatuated with my back, that I failed to realise the danger in front of me, right in plain sight. That'd soon be my downfall.

A pressure plate triggering was the only thing – the last thing, I hear before...

That sickening...

 _SNAP!_

 ** _-RARRRRGH!-_**

 ** _I shriek._**

Pain.

It shoots up my left paw.

It is ruinous and overwhelming.

It is tyrannous, conquering – confounding all of my senses at its power-hungry and merciless wake.

It leaves but a single goal for my body to accomplish: to get out of this thing.

I struggle. I frantically inspect the mechanism.

It presents itself to me like a shark's sword-tipped jaw. It reeks of iron. My right front paw fanatically searches for a release. Every mechanism has one. Right?

After what seemed like days of withstanding the pain, I finally find it. The button. My paw squashes it.

Oh, gods. The naivety of this dragon. Surely, the creators of the trap would account for the button.

As if that would change...

 ** _The trap moans itself open._**

Anything.

Hmmph.

I guess they didn't account for a _smart_ animal passing through.

I inspect the damage.

Oof. I am going to feel _that_ one in the morning.

Or rather, if there would be a morning.

Several deep scratches grace my paw, violent and brutal. It looks unclean and amateur; its red edges and imperfections make itself known to me.

Blood leaks in a steady stream.

Well. It did its job well. And effectively.

I inspect the trap further.

Whoever engineered this contraption must be a genius. The cogwheels, the way it all connects and works. Masterful.

For a moment, I blissfully forget what it did to me.

When I recollect the situation, I look at it again with a bit of scorn.

The admiration is still there, though.

I also belatedly notice a purple-like substance, running through my leg.

That's odd.

I don't recall blood being the colour purple. Unless...

 _Unless..._

It is a poison.

Oh, no.

Almost on cue, I start to feel a bit out of it. Groggy. Sleepy.

Ah, shit.

Whoever set this up really _did_ account for everything.

As my world slowly caves in on itself, a frantic set of breathing and gasps intrudes behind me. It sounded sudden and out-of-breath – its exhaustion heeds the air around it.

What I didn't expect, though,

was what the breathing belonged to.

It is not the sounds of a bird, or a deer, or an insect, for that matter.

It is that of a human's.

Before I sleep the pain away, a single, English formulated sentence is gasped:

 ** _"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."_**

And with that, I collapse, not willing to take any more exhaustion for the day.

* * *

 ** _Yay! 5000 hits!_**

 ** _..._**

 ** _Views._**

 ** _Whatever._**

 ** _Anyway. Thank you guys for taking the interest and time out of your day to read this story so far. I intend to reach 100,000 words within a year._**

 ** _Once again, from the bottom of my heart... thanks!_**


	28. One, Two, Three

Whatever that purple liquid was really nailed what it was alchemised for.

To an alarming tee.

I was served an utter knock out, with a complementary side dish of cold. Saying it was effective isn't giving it enough credit. It was _heavy_. I should tip the waiter for his excellent and astonishing services.

 _*Tip*_

Sweet.

I open my eyes to access my precarious predicament.

The first thing I am greeted to is olive-coloured crotchets. Okay. That was fine.

Was.

Why the past tense? Well, the thing is...

I start with the crotchets, right? Comprehensible. Then, when I angle my head slightly to the left, the pattern of crotchets continues.

Okay, that's _weird_ , but not weird enough to invoke anybody to raise any alarm bells just yet.

I look to the left.

Ooh, more! Joy.

I angle supplementarily.

The repetitious, vicious cycle of crotchets continue. Does this pain ever end?

I open my eyes further. My senses start to slowly get themselves together, one at the time.

First, touch.

I feel... my skin... scales, whatever.

Touching some sort of leathery substance. An odd cross between a rope and a piece of fur armour. How odd. The sensation brings forth waves of the leathery substance around my scales. It is as if the waves are shaped to be sorts of even-measured squares, with spaces of no sensation at all, in between.

It seems I have won me some new fans. In the form of crotchets. And they are all _hugging_ me. Rather forcibly and roughly, I might add.

Talk about clinginess.

My mind clears a bit. And, more and more, the situation makes itself clearer as I think.

Then.

A single, simple train of thought surfaces on my mind soon after.

 _Oh. Oh, gods._

It was not even a second later that, in stupendous, dumbfounded realisation, I realise what the current situation entails for me. How idiotic can one get? I think I have set the bar to a record high.

I have been _tied up_.

In a rather well-fortified net. Only can a certain Hiccup be **this** imprudent in his entire lifetime. I am giving all the Hiccups that had come before me a bad name!

And, given my idiocy...

I don't think I will be escaping from this one anytime soon.

I try to stretch out my limbs, and, hopefully my wings.

I struggle more, only to process out a disappointing sigh after.

My efforts appear to be fruitless endeavours.

No matter how gods-damned hard I try, the ropes just won't budge. Too stubborn to do so.

Ugh. I give up.

So I, in a somewhat overly dramatic fashion, fall flat on the ground. It reminds me like how a toddler would do it. They would fall over, flail their arms & legs around, then procedurally complain that they hadn't gotten what they want. I speak from experience.

 ** _-A rather blunt hint:_**

 ** _Me-_**

Except.

I don't follow with any complaining. Of the sort.

I only keep the face.

And I can bet you all of my books and lucky stars that I look absolutely pitiable.

Man.

Always look where you are going. I don't mean to lead by example.

After a concerningly long period of time of lamenting hopelessly to myself, I finally take in my surroundings.

Wood.

The first thing I see, aside from the net that is restricting me from anything.

Second, a lit candle – hidden behind the transparency of glass. It stands erect in the middle of what looks to be a dining table, a rather worn out one at that. If somebody were to say to someone that this was a piece of salvaged furniture, they would be none the wiser.

I think I have seen this kind of candle handle illustrated in Roman-inherited books before.

They were designed to circumvent any potential fire-starting to occur in wooden houses, as well as being an easy-to-handle candle holder in the process. Vikings would never use what they call 'lamps'. They think it is a sign of weakness. It is not like they are wrong – in a way, it is.

But, when their houses get set alight, they shouldn't come running and crying to me.

Pyromaniacs.

Whatever this place is, it has to be either close to, or in Rome right now. Though, if it was Rome, it would be weird. I don't recall them stating that they used wood to build their houses instead of stone. Some select houses do, then? All I can do in my current situation is to just speculate.

I hate speculation.

Angling a little to the right from the dining table, a crudely shaped window appears before my tangled form. Its frame looks to be done by an amateur. It looks to be sunrise outside. Satisfied with what I have seen, I look further to the left of the table. A simple, modest wooden door. It doesn't do much for its looks, but it takes solace in the fact it does its job. Relatively well.

I stay like that for a while.

Until...

I hear them.

Squeaks. Of the hollow, wooden boards. Coming behind the door.

Somebody is coming.

Oh, gods.

They get louder, much to my dismay. My heart races faster.

I hear a hand coming into contact with the door handle. To think: a simple touch can send my heart running a marathon. It is almost comical, but all-roundly execrable. Especially for a creature of such whopping size and height.

I wonder what the hunter would think of me. I bet with malevolence and stagger.

I seal my eyes with an adhesive made of raw shame.

Within a moment's notice, I hear the door open.

I am in for a debauching time.

An olive-skinned man stands in the doorway. A reasonably tall one at that. He just reaches Dad's shoulder. The rest, though...

He would be like what us Vikings call a 'runt', like me. The runts are the frail and weak. Supposed to be those who have no hint of a reasonable body mass. And yet. Somehow, some way. He manages to be frailer than Fishlegs, of all people. He looks like a gods-damn _twig_.

His face droops, almost to the point where it is about to become actual slime. His eyes are hung wide, as if he had seen a draugr. His eyebags look like a dam about to burst.

They are haunting.

Gods.

Everything else about him, though.

Just... he is so _stereotypical_ when it comes to Southerners.

Weirdly placed nose.

Non-crooked teeth.

An underdeveloped beard.

All of those things. He even dons a leather-skin jacket.

Yeah, yeah. I know.

That is pretty rich coming from a guy... dragon like me.

Moving on.

He formulates a sentence. They were begging to escape his throat.

It is not just any sentence, though.

It's an English one.

 _"Oh! You are awake."_

I must be a long way from Berk if English was spoken. Hel, quite a long way from Rome, then.

Needless to say, Romans speak Roman. An English-speaking Roman would be...

Shocking.

And, that means...

I wouldn't know where I am. That's a problem.

Luckily, I am not completely illiterate to what he is saying.

Learning languages come as second nature to me. English is one of the easier ones. I am sure it is not as impressive of a skill as I make it out to be, but I like to think for it to be a... reasonable skill to master.

I try to move.

He pulls out his blade in response. And, personally, I find it rather sharp and jagged.

I freeze.

You know, what he says next really surprises me, for a Southerner.

I thought he was going to say along the lines of:

 ** _-"At the slightest twitch, at the slightest provocation – I am going to bury this blade so far deep into your hide you would be begging for a swift death, I swear on me mum."-_**

Because. As we all know. Romans are never ever culturally and prejudicially biased when they right their books.

Luckily, he was having none of that.

Jokes aside. Genuinely, I thought to myself. He was going to threaten me with all sorts of coercions. Instead, what comes out of his mouth sounded more vulnerable than I think even _he_ intended.

 _"Okay, please... uh..."_

He stares at his knife for a bit, as if it had something interesting. He's struggling to find the words.

 _"I... I am not afraid to use this."_ He motions the blade at me as if I understand it all.

 _"So... oh, God. You probably don't even know what I am saying."_

Well.

The thing is, pal.

I do.

Imagine.

How much would the situation turn on its head if he knew? He would have probably cut my throat there and then. I try my best to play the part and act otherwise.

 _"Just..."_ He maintains that exasperated and aching look on his face.

It looks tired.

I relate to the expression.

Then, something I didn't expect. Without uttering a word, he moves.

Motioning and stepping forward.

To me.

Oh, no.

What is he going to do to me?

He comes closer. Ever closer to me.

I tense. I shut my eyes as if the Sun itself had shone all of its collective brightness towards them. He is going to kill me, isn't he?

It all adds up.

Think for a second: you walk into your room, hands held high, happy that you finally have the equipment you need to properly cut through the prey's abnormally tough scales, only to have it wake up on you prematurely. Your prey wakes from their non-consensual slumber, and the only thing they might, no, are almost guaranteed to do? Employ acts of frenzy in their panicked states.

Tell me. Honestly.

What would you do?

Yes. That's right.

You'd kill it as fast as possible.

I think he will follow through with that train of thought.

Things are not looking good for this sorry sod.

Before I can even contemplate to further process my paranoia, I suddenly feel a bit of freedom on my right hindleg. As time passes, more and more is being freed, and the feeling of the air brushing against it grows. It isn't long before it entirely and effusively escapes the net's grasp. As if... as if the ropes are being...

Cut?

What?

That wouldn't make sense at all.

Cutting off game, especially of my physical stature... surely, he'd consider it time-wasting, and most importantly, suicidal.

Right?

He thinks otherwise. I feel my left hindleg come loose. It touches the ground limply.

I stare at my abductor with a questioning look. He maintains his unreadable stance. What is he trying here? Does he want the claws on my legs? It's probably the claws on my legs.

But.

Why couldn't he do it when I was knocked out? In fact, why _couldn't_ he have done anything to me when I was knocked out? Why wait until now? Why wait until the morning?

Those are the questions that had come to surface.

And none of them will be answered.

With a rather impressive yank, my head is pulled forward. I try to recover from the sudden action by balancing my hindlegs, but it doesn't seem to work. I fall back down, still shocked from the ordeal. In a blur, I look up.

A collar. The man brandishes the tether of one.

Of course.

You got to keep all of your belongings close to you somehow. He takes that idea to a whole other level. What a creative use for a leash. I decide to hold off my admiration when he pulls for me to motion forward.

I comply.

He steps out of the room.

I do too. Albeit, quite awkwardly.

Why? I am still tied from the waist up.

My mouth is tied with an impromptu knot. Be it as rudimentary as it may, it does its job well regardless. I conclude that it'd be too much of an effort to get it off. It'd be impossible anyway. Hel, have you seen me try to lift just _one_ log of firewood? I thought not. I can't even do that, much less use my _mouth_ to break free from a rope. A rather tight one, at that!

We walk through a wooden hallway.

He must not be of an exactly fortunate bloodline. It accentuates and reeks Getting by With the Lower Class.

And I thought I was having it hard.

Fat chance, Hiccup.

The sunrays shimmer their spotlights on the dancing dust around the room. There's something about the chaos on the dancefloor that simply looks beautiful to me.

On top of me, what looks like rotting driftwood, but, notwithstanding, it still does its job.

To the far right, next to a more realised wooden door, there clumsily stands an assortment of tools in a reasonably sized leather pouch.

To the left, two less realised doors.

Only one lays open. It leads to some sort of living area. There is not much going on in there to shout about.

Two chairs. A fireplace. A stewing pot. The necessities.

Only one, solitary object stands out from the crowd. A dog. Well, not a living one. A wooden one. One that is quite small. A 'mini-figure', if you like.

It looks like it has seen its fair share of wear and tear.

A bit dirty. Some damage. Some weather impairment. It still retains its shape, though, and it looks admirable all the same. But... what would a hunter like the one in front of me want with a... _toy_ like that. Maybe he has some sort of secret appreciation for sculpturing?

The second one is bordered off.

I wonder what lies in there?

Before my mind can wander further, he yanks me out into the open. The sun is blinding.

I yelp.

That came off more beastly that I initially intended. I have got to give credit where credit's due here. He handles it unusually well. I highly doubt that an Englishman has seen a dragon before, much less handle one. So, what's with his lukewarm attitude?

I take a quick glance on his face.

Gods.

Is there an adjective to describe anger, sadness and worry all at once? If not, there should be.

Here, I will start:

His expression is pulling.

Any suggestions welcome.

I gulp.

We continue our walk. For quite a bit.

We end up entering a forest-like area. I say _like_ because of the contents. There's not much green in this place. What replaces it is a peculiar substitute.

Grey.

The sapling leaves have fallen, bits and pieces of them, stubbornly clinging on to some of the branches above.

Needless to say,

It is depressing.

We scale down a mini pseudo-hill.

Okay, things are not making sense.

Where is he taking me? Why not _kill_ me?

Ailing questions, I know. And, conveniently for me, I get my answer sooner than I expect.

In the form of a sentence.

 _"You want to see it? Here. Happy? Satisfied?"_

It sounds desperate as all Hel.

Then, my worst nightmare acts out in real life. Humans. They emerge from the trees.

One.

Two.

Three.

They all carry swords.

Oh, no.

No.

He is more sadistic than I assumed.

He brought some friends to finish me off.

Gods.

Things are not looking good.


	29. Lamentations of the Angry and Depressed

_"Huh?"_

The expression wasn't pronounced in the way of confusion. Nor did it stem from simple idiocy.

It was of confrontation. Intimidation. The kind of expression that is uttered by the furious and desperate.

Who had expressed it?

The abductor. _My_ abductor, of all people.

And, true enough, he does look desperate. Underneath his timid, average, there rested piercing, soul-gazing eyes. They look to be quite the burden.

He doesn't blink.

 _"Are you satisfied?"_

I see a bit of spit thrown from his mouth. The three other men baulk.

I flinch.

For how long can a man hide pent-up anger before he finally erupts? I don't know. And I don't wish to be there to find out.

He looks like he is on the verge of it. He shouts again, completely fed-up.

 _"Is this evidence enough? Huh?"_

His lips quiver.

 _"Huh?!"_

There is a long, long silence from both parties. The abductor looks to be in a staring contest with them. He has already won fifty times over.

One of the humans – the one to the right, speaks. Rather reluctantly, I might add.

 _"I..."_

 _"I what? For the love of God, tell me,"_ the abductor chortles, frantic _. "I what?!"_

The right man steps out of his position, arms raised at half-length and height, hands open. He motions them, telling him to simmer down.

 _"Calm yourself, Jacob. Please,"_ he begs _. "Breathe, breathe. You don't want the forest to get the drop on either of us."_

'Jacob', still bitter, complies. The cohort in front follows through, calming the intensity of the situation.

 _"We just..."_ the man to the right starts. _"Fine. I will tell it to you straight."_

The hunter eases his pose, but the held-back rage in his manner still stands out among either of us. Relieved at his reaction, he continues.

 _"When you told us... claimed to us, that you found a living, breathing dragon, we found it absolutely ridiculous. Out of this world,"_ he says. _"We came here, admittedly, to gawk at you. And, to be fair, can you fault either of us? The only dragons we have heard of exist fairy tales!"_

His two companions nod.

 _"The situation was below the lowest of our expectations. But... now that we have been proven wrong..."_ He points a finger, deriving from any other attention in the immediate area, begging everybody to notice my existence. It feels uncomfortable. _"I..."_

He stirs as he stands. The rest seem worse in this regard. He moves on.

 _"I..."_ he sighs. "We _are sorry."_ The rest hang their heads apologetically in response. Jacob merely snorts in antipathy. The one to the right proceeds. _"We hadn't even come prepared with the coin, regardless. But... Jacob, you must know what this means, right?"_

Jacob raises his eyebrow.

 _"We can't actually... pay you anything."_

Oh.

 _Oh._

They have really done it now. He growls. My ears flicker in shock. I never knew that a human could growl.

What I wouldn't give to not hear _that_ again.

It was scarring.

They must have ticked him off.

Hard.

I can see the red boiling in his cheeks.

They visibly shrink underneath his sheathing teeth.

Then, to save face, the one in the middle this time steps forward.

 _"Jacob, you must understand, we are not doing this in spite of you,"_ he explains. _"We would most certainly like to pay you, if we could."_

He steps closer, fiddling with his fingers.

 _"But... you know how it is, with the king's beliefs. Anything out of the ordinary and he will procedurally consider a shaman. So, for him to see and collect a dragon? A little jarring. Hell, I'd personally add it into our species collection, if I was in charge."_

He leans on his back.

 _"I am so sorry. I know what the coin means to you."_

The middleman stands with a genuine look of guilt and pity on his face. The abductor simply looks downwards.

There was long, wretched silence.

Until...

 _"You know what?"_ the man next to me says. _"You... you three can go. It's alright."_

He looks up, stifling back tears. His hand finds his way on his mouth. His cheeks are about to be overcast with downpour.

 _"She... she's running on borrowed time anyway."_

He chokes that time.

The amount of venom in his tone is ego-destroying.

The rest of the humans share my sentiments.

Whoever 'she' is must be someone close. Gods.

I don't know all too well about loss. It has never been my area of expertise.

But.

A consolation.

I have seen the faces of those who had lost their loved ones. And, for the life of me. I never could figure out.

I never knew that people were capable of expressing so much sorrow and pain all at once. All, in one expression. It renders me mute.

The pain came to them in droves.

It never really had the decency to knock.

Their faces haunt me.

The men in front look devastated. They must have known this 'she' too.

 _"Please forgive us, mayb—"_

Jacob cuts in, his hand, signing them to stop.

 _"You don't have to prove me anything."_

They stare at him as if expecting this reaction to happen.

 _"Just go."_

 _"Bu—"_

 _"You have already done enough. Please. Leave."_

Jacob turns his back. _"You are only going to make it worse for my daughter and I."_

They hesitate. They look like they wanted to say something. Some words of comfort and defence.

But they comply.

They decide it is best to leave it be. They didn't want to make the situation anymore worse.

It wasn't long before that they left Jacob's and my sight altogether.

I looked down at him, still in an awkward standing position with my two hind legs.

He doesn't look back.

His silence deafens my ears.

I respect his space.

After what I estimate to be around a minute of, I hear a sound. It comes from the left.

I turn.

Jacob.

He breathes a long-winded sigh. It was made up of lethargy and regret.

I look at him more closely.

His eyes. They are dyed with a sickly crimson red. His lips stutter, almost in response to a sudden coldness that wasn't there. I note that they are slightly of concave shape.

He is about to break.

Inside, he already has. Outside, it is not a matter of if, it is a matter of when. He is slightly in the process of keeling over.

Then, as if of sudden contrition, he turns, facing me. I lower my stance.

Had I done something wrong? Had he misheard a non-existent snicker?

He pulls out his knife. I flinch.

He is going to finish the job. What he started. I turn my head away and lower my ears and close my eyes and pray to all the gods that he doesn't finish me slowly.

What I get later is neither of that.

A great weight lifts from my chest. Less constricting, as if... as if...

He is cutting it loose, again.

What?

I angle my head backwards. There he is, severing the ropes, bit by bit.

But _why?_ Why is he cutting off a creature who, by the looks of things, will mostly likely kill him the first chance it gets?

Why does he want to cut me loose?

So, so many questions for this man. He should organise together a QnA. That'd clear things right up.

And they are answered, in a way. He multitasks.

 _"I know you can't understand me, but... I... I am sorry. I just... I thought you were the jackpot. The holy grail."_ He cuts off the ropes that bound my front legs. I know the expression he bears on in his face. He is hysterical. _"Never had anybody, around here anyways, seen your kind before. So, I figured: 'Yeah, you know what? The king might want this.' I thought I could get the coin that way. The... cure."_

He stops to let a soft chuckle.

 _"Huh. Clearly, his lackey bastards thought that wasn't good idea. Yeah, I know, pretty malicious stuff. What you have demonstrated to me earlier cleared all of my doubts that you weren't intelligent enough_." He pauses to collect himself. _"And... I_ never _, had I ever, kill any living creature for no reason. I just needed the coin. Jesus taught me that. So, I am cutting you off."_

There it is again, 'Jesus'.

I have read on him before. I see his name appear occasionally times in certain Roman books.

Apparently, he is a God. Capitalised. The only one to quite a lot of people down South. The stuff he preaches isn't nearly _as_ exciting as my gods, but his message to do good got across to much of the general populace. To make love, and not war.

So, in a sense.

Jacob's beliefs are more effective and less barbaric than mine.

I think it was called along the lines of Christianity.

He continues.

 _"'Love all life, even the wicked ones.' That was what He and my ma taught. It was her one dying wish. And, I'll have you know – hell – I'll have everybody goddamn know, that I followed through. That I followed that statement like a goddamn sentinel. That I had fulfilled her wish."_

He stops cutting to heartily bump his chest, as if he is trying to kill something in there.

Well, I guess he is, in a way.

Not for the sake of his health and wellbeing though. Far from it.

 _"The impossible task that was given to me. Me alone. To some random nobody. Some random Joe. Shmo. And I welcomed it with open arms. Because God... He has a plan for_ all _of us. Even the wicked. And I had believed that. For the longest bloody time. That God was helping Ma, in her dying breath, to deliver the message to me. And, true enough, I believed it. All of it."_

He cuts free the ropes that restrain my front paws.

 _"I pray every dusk, every dawn, every time I get to eat, every moment wake, every second I breathe. I pray, oh, how hard I pray."_

He loosens my back. I feel the wind brushing against my wings.

 _"And, what does he repay me with?"_

Finally, he cuts the rope that binds my mouth, too distraught to think clearly that I may enact my revenge on him.

I don't feel evil enough to intend to.

His eyes look like a dam on the verge of collapsing. His lips stutter like a small child.

 _"An illness. It was not the existence of the sickness itself that kills me, no, but it was the way he gave it. He could have given it to me. It could have given me the most painful and insufferable disease that has ever existed, and I wouldn't even flinch. I opened my arms wide, welcoming the pain that awaits, as it is God's will. But, no."_

A long, dreadful pause.

 _"But. He had to go for her."_ He points his finger accusingly to no one in particular. _"He had to go for Lisa. He had to. This is the kind of suffering that even the Devil would oppose, and God, all high and mighty, all loving and caring, decided to go for Lisa."_

A choke escapes his mouth.

 _"Why Lisa? Why?"_

By Odin.

 _"Why?"_

His voice aches and grips. The pain makes me shiver.

He looks just about done. He drops his knife.

His knees tremble. They fall and land on the ground.

He tries, how hard he tries. To resist. That sick, sick temptation.

But, in the end.

It is only inevitable.

He weeps a river almost as depressing as life itself.

The tears come in a hot, messy stream. It's dirty and endless.

He sobs into his palms unceasingly, a ferocious and noisy affair.

I concur with this notion.

Sometimes.

When I felt hopelessness and more at night, back in Berk.

I'd cry in my sleep.

I'd cry, and keep crying.

I shrieked sadness.

A sadness that swept the air of my room.

A sadness that can only end in decorated bedsheets soaked with the bitterness of tears and the throbbing, aching weight of tomorrow.

I concur. I know how it feels to be at the lowest of the low.

The main difference between him and I?

I experienced it almost every day.

But.

It doesn't detract from the direness of this moment. It doesn't make it any less tragic.

So, I keep quiet.

I am cut completely loose now. The tangled mess of residue rope stares at me hopelessly.

I sigh.

How easy it would be for any other animal to attack him right now. At his most vulnerable.

Luckily, for you or me, I am not one of those animals.

I am even _worse_.

I step away from his plight and climb back up the hill.

In what amounts to ten seconds, I had formulated a cunning string of objectives.

One, that I needed to get to his hut.

Two, that I needed to get to the bottom of this.

And three, that I needed to get to Lisa.


	30. The Diary of a Young Girl

With the reassuring and almost guaranteed fact that Jacob is probably not going to catch up to me any time soon, I weave through the trees of the forest at a relatively leisurely pace.

Not because I don't care for or acknowledge the direness of the situation, no.

I do.

It is just that – if I _were_ to gallop full throttle, or even merely run, I'd stumble over on myself fifty times over in the process. And I'd rather for that not to occur. That'd hinder progress and **time** quite a bit.

And I need all the time I can get.

Especially for Lisa.

Why?

The term 'borrowed time' doesn't resonate all that well of a description for this 'Lisa' girl. The way Jacob said was what also gave this tidbit of info away.

 ** _-That whoever 'Lisa' is, is in deep, deep, perpetual shit-_**

But, why bother at all to intervene, or, dare I say it, _help_ her? Why help my _kidnapper_ , for that matter?

What has he done for me to care for him? Where's the motivation? The incentive?

Sometimes, I ask that question myself.

And, to be honest,

I don't really know.

Maybe it was the forlornness of his plight.

Maybe it was because he had _truly_ done all he could to help Lisa, and still got nothing out of it.

Maybe because his situation was relatable. Not in the sense I have had experience with losing someone dear to me.

Far from it.

Just the feeling.

The sinking, hopeless feeling. That nothing will ever work out.

Hel, perhaps, it was a combination of all of those factors.

I am not sure why I feel so compelled; my mind is a muddle.

But, right now, I can echo my current thoughts to you as clear as day:

 ** _-I don't want anyone to fall into the same cesspool of misery as I did-_**

That long list of 'anyone' includes Jacob.

And I will stand by it.

Clumsily, I trod back the way I came, making a point to stay upright to the best of my ability.

Efforts varied.

I manage to let out a chortle at my derisory, it later scoffing in response.

Looking up, the sky seems particularly fixated on the cloud Grey today. They have been separated from each other's grasps for five whole days, and they are finally reuniting with one another for the first time in what seemed like forever.

Grey knew he was a sensitive soul, but he would not let that trait get to him today.

No.

He chafes back the tears courageously, and does his best to express his emotions with the sky as best he could.

Without breaking down.

He tries to hide his anxiety underneath his mass, but his efforts just do not show. Much to his dismay.

He was always self-conscious about his wrinkles during his emotional piques. This instance is no different, but somehow worse still.

 _The wrinkles shouldn't be there, especially now_ , he laments.

He doesn't want to make a scene in front of his friend, and resists his most primal desires in order to appease her.

How considerate. Romantic, even.

They are gods-damned meant for each other, I tell you.

I look away from the scene.

I continue to crawl. A whole five minutes pass.

And not _one_ sign of any house estate whatsoever.

The forest is a very large – and this one in particular – very _repetitious_ and dull place to wander.

So, if you are not looking and not placing your breadcrumbs correctly, it'd take minimal effort on your part to get lost.

Have I, is the question.

More and more, as I trudge further and further, I slowly begin to adopt that mentality.

And I can tell you now.

It is _terrifying_.

The clouds are waving their final goodbyes. They bump and apologise to one another as they leave. In a rather blunt form of friendly banter, they leave Grey behind.

What an unlucky guy. The trees around me merely look on at his plight, indifferent, and frankly unapologetic.

Before I get the chance to express the many frustrations with my sense of depth perception with one thorough barrage of comment suicide, I smell something.

Something alerting.

Something disconcerting.

The smells and scents of...

Of...

A small child.

And the striking, foreboding stench of illness that wades in the air.

Gods.

Getting used being a dragon, especially with a nose like _this_.

It is going to be tough if I am not all too careful. Otherwise, I may make some involuntary mistake in spite myself.

I mean, I am one already, but why have more?

It only took the effort of turning two corners before finally finding it. The house I have so lovingly yearned for.

 ** _-Jacob Estate-_**

Walking up to his front door, I place my front paw on its splinter-infested surface.

Sorry for not having the decency to knock first, but it seems like no one fit is at home.

Now, if you don't mind me...

I trespass.

The dingy and congested air embellishes my well-met snout. They come with the colourful tinges of illness. I have little doubt that it is Lisa.

In an instant, I was submerged within the house's folds.

The smell of disease is overwhelming.

Turning right, two rooms stand by the wall - the dreadful smell particularly pungent in one of them.

Oh, what a dilemma! Which to pick?

Opening the one residing on the right, lo and behold.

Just across the room.

A crooked bed, a lit candle, a half-empty bowl of water, a night desk, a crumpled blanket, and a miserable-looking figure occupying much of the bed. It wouldn't be too far off to make the presupposed and foregone conclusion that the figure is Lisa, right?

I step closer.

Her chest can barely lower itself, let alone lift itself up. She is struggling.

I hear her breath. Wheezing. It oozes pain. Toil.

How can Jacob tolerate seeing her like this every day?

Making that slow, agonising walk to her room, attending to her quandary.

Seeing a loved one in such a state.

While hearing that unbearable sound.

That sole _suffering_.

I would already have lost my slippery grip on sanity long ago, if I was in his shoes.

Jacob is the work of the gods. The human embodiment of humanity's will to practice courage, even in the darkest hour.

Something that I lack quite severely.

I close in on her, like a predator before pouncing on its prey. I hate how much the action resembles that of a _cat's_. I suppose it would have to do.

I reach her, only two charcoal stick's distances from coming into contact with her face. I wouldn't want my breathing to reach out to her consciousness.

Slowly and gently, with my one good front paw, I lift some of the blanket from her face.

Gods. The girl looks as pale as a ghost.

I imagine the expression she bears inside is even worse in that regard.

A pair of heavy eyebags graces her face, leaving a nasty hint of blue-black on her upper-portion. Mucus runs down her nose. Her hair is in shambles. Messy, unkempt, and what would normally be of a blond colour had been discoloured into a darker yellow. Her lips look parched, as if it had trudged through Hel and back to her mouth.

 ** _-An observation:_**

 ** _Her face bears striking resemblance to that of a child's-_**

Is she Jacob's daughter?

Oh, Thor.

Unfortunately, I only planned to be here for a temporary while - Jacob returning doesn't make me all too keen on dying.

Hel itself would be unleashed on me, if that were to be the case.

Other than that, there also lies the need for a thought-over plan to help Lisa's problems.

Carefully, I creep out of the room.

Or, at least try to.

I fail. How come?

The house didn't want me to leave its hospitality yet, the clingy bastard.

Much to my alarm, the floorboards moaned at the misplacement of one of my paws.

And the kicker here?

It was loud.

Worryingly so, a sound that ricochets about the room.

My heart sinks. My eyes shoot up. My jaw opens up partially, cringing. The perpetrating paw stays where it belongs.

I freeze entirely.

Oh, gods.

The full scope of the action embeds itself deep within my core.

What have I done?

I turn around slowly, guiltily. I gawp at her lying figure.

Oh.

Oh, thank gods.

I don't know whether it was just pure luck or whether it was the gods themselves that had intervened. But, there she was. Stirring somewhat peacefully in her dreamscape, soundly.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

I turn around, intending to finish what I started.

It was only around four-fifths of my journey where my heart had jumped into my throat in sheer fright of what had happened. It was jading.

 _"Are you who I t-think you are?"_

Who knew words could be so gods-damned heavy?

 _"You know, you look awfully like a bat with wings rather than the Black Angel."_

I turn back my head to plead guilty, never bothering to consider whether it was just the gust of wind that had entered my ears.

Nope. I am pretty sure.

The sounds, or words, rather, came from Lisa.

Although my newly-sculptured face does a good job at masking emotions during moments that makes me want to jump out of my skin, even _I_ think that the fear shows itself through the flatness in this specific instance.

I feel my ears droop.

 _"You came to claim my soul."_ She pauses to throw a nasty coughing fit. I have not heard it worse before. _"D-didn't you? To God's arms?"_

I simply stare, not finding the right expression or action to don. She wheezes. Has she no concern that she may meet her maker, apparently through me?

 _"You are not one for words, huh? I guess you guys aren't really—"_ She coughs again, pretty sure of myself that I saw blood, that time. She continues despite the condition. _"Friendly."_

Gods. I have not seen a child who truly believes that all hope was lost before. She doesn't deserve the treatment of this cruel, cruel world.

 _"Maybe it comes with the job."_ She pauses, deep in thought. _"It does, doesn't it?"_

I slouch my form. The silhouette that once towered over her form relaxes. Not in response, mind you.

 _"I thought so."_

You know, for someone who is in the process of dying, she is real conversed in the arts of sass.

I sigh.

If only I had functional vocal chords. Then _I_ can reply back likewise. Petty, I know. But, if she is going to verbally play me like that...

I will have you know: I take pride in my ability to respond in wit to every sentence directed to me, if I really tried. I just never went through with it. Otherwise, I would have big dick Snotlout to answer to. Who knew a peanut brain like he is equipped with had a moral compass?

Lisa continues the severely one-sided conversation.

 _"So, what? You are just going to stand there? A-aren't you going to kill me?"_

Finally, a sentence without that soul-humbling whooping cough.

And I have no idea how to respond. My eyes wander for a bit in thought.

She's confused at the act. You know what?

Me too.

I give my draconic version of a shrug.

Then. I notice something. At the corner of my eye.

On the night desk.

My eyes dart.

A placid poorly-lit book, minding its own business on our awkward exchange.

Next to it, a charcoal stick, wrapped in a sort of linen cloth.

Perfect.

I am a myriad of bright ideas, aren't I? Writing on a piece of paper?

I step closer. She seems to notice my movements, closing her eyes. I half-expectedly her to say something along the lines of 'I have made my peace, anyway', but, not one word escapes her mouth.

She just is.

It is creepy how easily she accepts her death.

I prowl.

I stand next to her night desk.

Once again, it puts me into perspective on how much taller I am now. I am practically at roof height.

I scoff.

As best I could, I try to pick up the book.

Surprise, surprise.

It doesn't work.

How I long for longer fingers right now.

I barely manage to balance it on my good paw.

It was going good for a while. Until I drop it. As I procedurally predicted.

It falls onto the desk. It laughs at my pitiable nature. It oozes mock.

I grumble.

A voice rudely intrudes my struggle.

 _"What are you doing with my diary?"_

Gods, that sounded so innocent that it may as well have turned me into a pink-coloured blob of jelly. Good thing she retains some sort of childhood within her.

Can't say the same for me.

People wanting to constantly hurt you would pull you out of the delusions of your fantastical world of happiness right quick.

 _"Are you going to read it?"_

I shake my head.

Her eyebrows raise slightly.

In response, I gesture towards the charcoal on the desk, hoping she would understand.

She nods in understanding.

Thank gods she has a slither of intelligence. Kids of her age back on Berk were just the worst. In what sense? Well, if they were instructed by their parents or guardians to swallow nails, they would.

That kind of 'worst'. Children usually don't think logically, or so I have found out.

The gods didn't think of _that_ when they made us, did they?

Luckily for me, the carcass rotting in front of me is the rare exception. I feel blessed. Too bad the blessing wouldn't last very long if I don't act on it soon.

I put the charcoal stick in between my 'fingers'.

A seamless affair. Kind of.

I flip the cover on the night desk.

 _"Nosey little..."_ She was about to follow up on it, but eventually decides against it. She's worried that it'd make me, The Black Angel, rather mad.

I would be, too.

 ** _Diary of Lisa Honeybrew_**

 ** _Age: 8 9 10 11_**

 ** _Only Daddy and Mommy can read it._**

Huh. Experience.

I glance over at Lisa for a little while.

She just looks at me expectantly, still fixated on the tale that I have come to claim her soul. I smile. She tries her best to look confused. The smile turned into a smile.

I flip over, careful not to tear a page.

 ** _13/5/117_**

 ** _Mummy only died yesterday._**

 ** _I'm very sad._**

 ** _She gave this book to me as a gift for my birthday today. I told her that I wanted to write, because she loves her stories so much._**

 ** _That was a lie._**

 ** _I never liked writing, or reading for that matter. I only wanted for her to smile. Seeing me write like a truly, sincerely enjoy it._** **I _only wanted to see her smile._**

 ** _She never did._**

 ** _And now, she never can._**

 ** _She only huffs and grunts whenever I try to do something funny for her. I guess it was all she could do. I only wanted to hear her laugh again. I only wanted to make her happy._**

 ** _I failed._**

 ** _Now, only Daddy cries. He cries and cries. He keeps crying. And he never stops. Even though he asks God to help, He never responds. God only leaves Daddy there, every night, on the floor. Leaving Daddy to become his own puddle._**

 ** _I usually would have laughed seeing him like that._**

 ** _Not this time._**

I stop there.

I couldn't bear any more of the trauma.

Deciding against the suffering, I skim the pages, wanting to avoid her misery as much as possible.

Normally, I would have remarked on how Dad is such a big fat liar, but clearly, this is now not the time, nor the place.

I am willing to bet she feels offended at my indifference to her situation.

Except. I am not.

I just don't really have enough to continue.

I find The Black Angel to be quite selfish. Too much so for his own good.

 _What an asshole_ , she thinks to herself.

I have to agree with her. He is one, and the attitude doesn't come with the job either.

I skim until I see blank. From there, I work my way.

Charcoal on paper, I do my best to formulate a sentence with what my body has given me.

A few seconds pass. It's not a quick affair. I rest on my back, placing the charcoal where it belongs.

Satisfied with the result.

It may not be the best work I have produced, but the message conveyed works the same across all matters of fluency. All I have accumulated on the English language, all of the tales they write. I put all my knowledge on the matter into one of its pages. The words looked overly large. But it'd have to do.

 _'I am not The Black Angel, Lisa.'_

The meaning should stand hoisted as transparent as possible, claws crossed.

I look at her expectantly. She delivers on my expectations.

She raises her eyebrows, even more enamoured now, more than ever. I am glad that there is still a bit of that childhood curiosity left in her; if she _had_ lost it all... then this encounter would have gone radically different.

I'd wager she just closes her eyes and not utter a single word in that alternate dimension. How depressing.

 _"Then... what are you?"_ she mutters. _"You look like the spitting image of one. Black wings and everything."_

Her words are confronting. I ponder what exactly to write for a moment.

A few moments pass and I have it.

 _"I... am not sure yet."_

I make it a point to focus on the dots, just to show how unsure I am. She can figure that out, right?

She considers my words, before saying: _"Really? How come?"_

I write again.

 _"It'd take weeks to write. And time doesn't look to be on your side now."_

That took a while. What she says takes minimal effort on her part, making me envy for vocal chords that much more.

 _"Fair enough."_

There was an awkward silence from both parties this time. It is clear: we can't think of what to say. I try my best to play the part of The Black Angel. Remaining silent.

Then, a reminder washes over me like how the riptides of a river would.

Helping her.

I might know a few herbs that may be able to assist, as unlikely as it may be. I suppose asking her about her insistent coughing would be a good start. I begin my interrogation.

 _"I've noticed you cough a lot."_

She responds like so. With full of discomfiture.

 _"Yeah? And—"_ She ironically has a fit again. Some spit made its way onto my snout. I swipe it off with my bad paw. _"And what about it?"_

She sniffles.

 _"Has your father trie"_

She cuts in before I get to finish what I write.

 _"Oh, yes. I thought you would know by now that he has tried everything. Even the coughing medicine."_

 _"Did it work?"_

 _"It never did."_

I make a mental note to myself.

 _"Oh, one of the rare ones, then."_

 _"Well, it better be! I don't want to die to something so common."_

At least she seems lively now. Alright. And,

 _"Do you make any weird sounds while you have a fit?"_

 _"Occasionally. It sounds a lot like 'whoops'. I normally would have laughed at a sound like that."_

Whoops. Whoops. Where have I heard of that before? Gothi's place, maybe. No, no, something else. Perhaps in Roman medical...

books.

 _"Lisa. I think I know how to fix you."_

Her eyes light up like how a Chinese firecracker would flicker.

 _"Really?"_

I respond with the most sureness I had ever had in years.

 _"Yes."_


	31. The Five Stages (or: How to Kill)

In my _professional_ medical opinion, Lisa has contracted an acute case of whooping cough.

It is a relatively uncommon illness; I'd even go so far as to say a _rare_ one.

To find a cure to such an illness is admittedly... a challenging procedure, especially around these parts. However, dear Lisa, be wary to not lose hope – for I, Doctor Haddock, currently under the alias 'The Black Angel', has found a breakthrough discovery: the cure to all that ails you.

And it is all stored in *here*.

In my head.

Well, I can't just take _all_ of the credit.

It was a joint and collaborative project between me and the Medical Bureau of Berk.

The Bureau managed to conjure up a cure for such a disease. Not a painkiller; a cure. What's more impressive? The entire Bureau was all made up of one employee!

Gothi.

And gods-damned it if I didn't want to hug her and kiss her and fall on the floor with her right now.

A grey light streams in the windows in an informal cohort of waves, canvassing the room in a great, overwhelming sense of nostalgia and sadness – but Lisa wouldn't be deterred by such insolent atmospheres.

Upon hearing my magic words, her eyes glistened and sparkled like how the stars of the night sky would. A gaudy, blissful panorama that overwhelms any grey that once lingered in its walls.

Hearing that there was even a _slither_ of chance that she could live brought life back into hers. I even half-expected that she would laugh and cry and skip around in circles right then and there.

However, the feeling was not meant to last.

 _No, no,_ she thought. That'd be too hopeful.

Nu-uh.

She convinces herself that she shouldn't get her hopes up.

Life has made sure of that.

Time and time and again, constantly betraying her and her many dreams, until one day, it was all too many to take.

She didn't want to be disillusioned and seduced again. By the notion of hope.

No.

The bastard always stole her of her innocence and excitement, sucking it out of her soul, leaving it hollow; every chance he gets.

Until it was as empty as a shell.

Talk about gluttony. The room desaturates from its colours again, leaving Grey behind. Must I empathise how unlucky he is?

And – she couldn't stand to feel that sadness again. Not when her life was about to be lost to the night wind.

So, as quick as it came, her jubilant enthusiasm dies – carcass, already rotting on the wooden floor.

Even with all of the emotions she is being bombarded with right now, she manages to get across all of them to me with one, short, simple sentence:

 _"You're lying, aren't you?"_

And it pierces like a dagger.

I internally wince to myself. Just when I thought we were getting along so well...

 _"There isn't any cure... I am done for."_

In an almost instantaneous reaction, I frantically scramble for her diary, determined not to let this girl become my successor. She was about to say something when she noticed my sudden jolt of willpower for her.

Hastily, I write:

 _"That isn't true! I know the herbs."_

My expression reaches an emotional climax for a moment there; of desperation and worry.

 _"They all say that. They always do. But they are never true. Never."_

 _"You speak as if from experience."_

 _"Yeah. I do."_

A reminder resurfaces in my head, beckoning me to recall, almost in a pleading fashion. To remember it, as all memories should be.

Then, with the power of a cannonball, the thought finally came upon me.

Didn't her mother...?

 _"Do you speak of your mother?"_

She retorts with a single-worded response. It was worth a thousand words.

 _"Yes."_

Oh, gods. Who'd lie to somebody that their loved one was going to be okay?

 _"Did you all reach out to a qualified practitioner?"_

 _"We did. The highest of the high. But the doctor didn't deliver. He lied."_

The amount of scorn in her tone is so overwhelming it reached out to me too. I feel it. The anger in her voice.

 _"We paid a fortune. All of our savings in coin,"_ she utters, bitterly, pausing for a moment to cough. Every time she has a fit, it only gets worse. She charges on.

 _"All of our Groschen, we gave to this man; only for him to lie regardless. We were left so hungry and thirsty. Starving, every day – but for Mama, we were willing to do anything."_

Only in this cruel, cruel world do you get 'people' who'd lie about a loved one's health – to get but a few shillings. One's life, for their own momentary gain. Is life really worth that much to them?

She stops to cough again. Her lips stutter as her eyes struggle to stay open and dry.

 _"He... he said that the medicine would work. Said it was from the Americas. And that it would cost plenty."_ Her eyes stare at me with plea. _"And we believed him. Honest to God, believed. Thought he was an agent of the Lord, a blessing."_

Tears are ramming the fleshy walls of her eyes now, pleading to be let out of their pent-up space.

 _"Only he wasn't. We only found out later: he... he was a con. But Mama was too deep into her sickness for us to do anything about it."_

Some tears manage to burrow their way out.

 _"We failed her,"_ she chokes. _"We failed Mama. We failed her and we let her die. Our starvation will never be enough punishment."_

Her eyes flutter to the ceiling, then back to me. In distress. In guilt.

 _"I get it now. This is my punishment, me dying. God has punished me. I... understand it now. I deserve to die. I deserve it."_

Will this girl ever let herself up?

I write at a hurried pace:

 _"No... no. Nobody ever deserves to die for anything, Lisa. Your mother dying was out of your control – it is not your fault. You have done everything in your power to sav"_

She cuts in again.

 _"Well, that's the problem, isn't it? With me? Why didn't I think of a way sooner? Why were we so stubborn, to hold out on her illness for so long? We could have reached out to a doctor so much sooner."_

My lips suddenly cave in on themselves. I didn't know they could do that, with a jaw as hinged as this.

And,

ah.

Well.

She has a point. I hate it when people have points.

I don't much enjoy being shoved between a rock and a hard place, but she is relishing in the thought. She wants this punishment _real_ bad, doesn't she? How am I going to argue against that?

I stare at the book for a moment, thinking of something to argue against her case.

A few moments pass. The air is tense around us – one party not wanting company at all and one that is intent on helping the former. The light entering through her window had gone into a temporary quagmire, despite it being midday, as if being adjusted according to the mood – a tinge of teal.

I ponder for a bit.

Then, a fleeting notion of thought floats unwarily in my head. Roman. Phycology. Books. _That's it._

I may have to skip one of the steps, though. Lisa has already covered that step.

 _"No, Lisa. You do not."_

If the books are anything to go by, hopefully, she would come up with my predicted respo—

 _"Yes, I do."_

Perfect. Stage one: denial.

 _"LISA! Get yourself together girl."_

That shut her self-deprecating mouth up right quick. A sudden aggravation from a normally timid figure – unexpected, and to be frank, worrisome, on the receiving end.

Deep inside, I think: "Thank you kindly, Roman phycology books."

I continue with my case.

 _"Your… mother passing must have weighed tons on your conscience. And I won't deny that. I may not know firsthand what it is like to lose someone, but I know firsthand the feeling that comes with it. Sinking, heart-aching. Hopeless."_

Her tears are winning a landslide victory now. They flow as generously as the lips of the sea. She tries to counter. _"Then you know why I want to do this."_

I rebuke.

 _"Actually, no, Lisa. No, I don't."_

 _"Why?"_

Roman books tell me to be cold and ruthless for the next step. So, I reply like so. Whatever god is up there, please – help me make this work.

 _"You act as if you are the exception, and you are anything but. Plenty of others have as well. You are not a special snowflake. If anything, a statistic."_

Her face morphs from one of plea to scorn. I have really done it now. Stage one ends; stage two commences.

 _"Who gives you the right to—"_

With a sudden jolt of energy, her back stands up, even to my surprise. Like how the books say she would. _"—to write that?!"_

I reply back with something so out of character that it even alienates _me._

 _"Alright, I will counter then: who gives_ you _the right to act this way?"_

 _Oh, the **audacity** of this asshole_, she probably thinks to herself _._ And just as expected: she is fuming magma and confusion.

 _"The hell do you mean what gives me the rig—I-I have every right to lash out to somebody who had just spit on Mama's grave! I have every right to cry…"_

The next step – confusion. I act on it by jotting quickly:

 _"Yes, I know you have every right to cry."_

 _"The—then where exactly are you getting at? What is your **problem**?"_

 _"The problem isn't that you're crying – the problem is that you are crying_ too _much."_

A beat involves itself within our scene. Unwelcome, uninvited, unwanted.

I remain silent.

Still cold. Still Black.

She opens her mouth to plea for my understanding.

 _"W-what did you just… I can cry however long I want. Who are you to…"_

Stage three. Bargaining.

 _"No, you can't, and you yourself damn well know that."_

By Freyja, I am ruthless today. I am no better than Snotlout at this point.

I am beating her emotions senseless – practically spitting on her mother's grave; may as well be taking a piss on it. Black Angel indeed.

She is a makeshift waterfall now. Grey and beautiful. She is struggling, but she still doesn't understand. _Why in Helheim am I doing this?_

It is time to plot my next step to my grand, despicable felony.

Delivering the message, clearly, straight and most important of all, bluntly. Addressing the problem, face first; no cutting corners. To what I estimate, will be her dismay.

I materialise in front of me… the Kill Ring. Just Lisa, I and the world watching on in stalwart indifference. Alive and chaotic. It roars.

The air drowns itself in a dank, charcoal grey.

The clouds jog around us in a circle formation – a ritual. The Sun hides behind the crowd, afraid of what the Black Angel may think. Afraid that I might come for it next.

I smell it. The incense of burning.

And, then…

Then. The form of Lisa.

Keeling over in front of me, begging me.

 _Please, please, let me go! I beg of you! Please…_

How unfortunate. I refuse.

Her wrists are chained to a pole, helpless and pitiful, and I, adorned with a whip and an iron fist. Every time I whip, a small chunk of her innocence chips off her dissolving form, canvasing the soil ground with a rich, gluttonous black. _It is working._

She wheezes and chokes. _"W-who—are… who are you to tell me what to do? You… you don't even know me. Why are you doing this…?"_

I whip her another round.

 _"I know you well enough. And this… this is not good for you. You need to let go of Mama."_

 _"Why…"_

She breathes.

 _"Please, please, don't bring her up again. It hurts…"_

I whip her once more.

 _"I know it does. And the feeling will always be there. A giant hole in your heart. But you can't just… let death take you so easily because of it. You need to move on."_

 _"But, I have to. I deserve it..."_

Brandishing the handle between claws, I whip her again; the hardest one. The most destructive one.

 _"No, you don't. You are just selfish."_

 _"What do you mean?"_

 _"You are not the only one to have lost someone before, you know. You act like you are the exception, when you are not."_

She is reeling from the blow. A nasty gash appears on her back – her shell. Cracked. Broken.

A splatter of black crayons the ground. Messy and dirty.

But I wouldn't be deterred.

 _"Plenty—plenty of people have lost their loved ones. And they feel sad initially, yes. But the difference between you and them?"_

I pause, letting her absorb all I have just said, to rest, before the next whip. Her face looks like an abstract painting: confusing, but thought-provoking.

Gratified, I continue.

 _"It is that they move on. They move on with their lives and not submerge themselves in misery. They don't get caught up in all of that muck. If you can't think for yourself, think of your mother – how would she feel to see you in such a state? Seeing you cry and berate and refuse help because of her death, how would she react?"_

Another beating. Another set. And she is shackling. Shackling from the pain, wheezing toil. Her legs give way; her arms, the only support she has left.

 _"Someone's passing shouldn't be mourned, it should be celebrated. You should celebrate your mother's life, what she has accomplished up to this point. The last thing anybody in their deathbed would need is to see their loved ones miserable. In turn, it would bring sadness to them as well."_

I let it sink in for a bit, an action that the Roman book emphasised was essential. I follow it like how a devout worshipper would. And, thankfully, it is working.

A few moments walk by, bewildered and perplexed. They carry on with their business as the whip in my hand relaxes, satisfied at the work.

It may not be the most ethical, but it gets the job done quicker than any other method as of yet.

I proceed to the next phase.

Acceptance.

I do believe that I mentioned somewhere earlier that the Depression stage had already concluded, yes?

 _"Look, you can continue on like this, I am not forcing to do anything. You can tell to get out if you want. I will. Just… do what you think is best in honour of the memory of your mother."_

Reverse phycology. Just a method if everything goes wrong. I hope that it isn't the case.

I wait and wait. For her response. She stares into a space, pondering my words.

Whatever the outcome, be it ignorance or being lashed at.

I am ready.

Time stops. She parts her lips. And…

 _"God, you have such a silver tongue."_

 ** _Yes._** My hand jumps for joy inside.

The whipping did it.

 _"I… yeah. This is stupid. Mama wouldn't want to see me like this. I am sorry. I…"_

She was about to say something when her head suddenly whips from me to the door, jumping a little.

What?

I look to where she is staring.

Oh. _Oh._

Oh, no.

The floorboards creak and shake, the wood underneath, struggling to make up for his added weight.

Gods.

Jacob.

He's coming. I think I felt my skin paint itself pale white.

 _"I—I think it'd be in your best interest if you hide,"_ advises Lisa.

Don't worry, I am on it. I am just struggling to find out _how_.

Frantically, my head flies around the room. I look for a hiding. And, wouldn't you have it. Just my rotten, gods-damned luck. There are none.

Shit, shit, shit.

I search desperately for more.

Nothing. Nothing but the air and the grey.

Oh, this is useless. I am done for. I may as well have had a white flag accompanying me wherever I go.

I don't want to know how fuming he would be if he saw an animal like me interact with one of his greatest treasures in life.

I really am done for.

The creaking gets louder. It stops at the door.

I hold my breath and pray to all of the gods. Let's hope they follow up on my prayer.

The door groans open.

 _This is going to be a doosey._


	32. Eyes Wide Shut

Oh, I am sorry. Where were we again?

Ah, yes.

How could I forget? I am going to die.

And trust in me – I am not insane. Here me out.

Death is such a miniscule event in life, and in so having that standpoint, I forgot.

I mean, who has the time to worry about such things anyway? It pulls you down, gets you all depressed – not one benefit I can think of when you get to the bottom of things.

Now, if you took what I've just said bluntly apart from the latter, you are the one that is insane.

I'd rather much prefer to avoid any instance of death at all costs. Because dying is _bad._ But, right now, life is really making it hard for me to put that plan into fruition.

Why is it so hard, you ask? Well.

Jacob – ever adventurous, ever curious Jacob – just so happened to have stumbled upon my little therapy session with Lisa.

And, what would you do if you saw an animal that is – for all you know – hungry for vengeance, in close proximity with your most beloved?

Yeah, I'd kill the dipshit as fast as possible too.

Again, I reiterate: I am going to die like nobody has died before. The door opens – an action that felt like forever and more.

The figure stands in front of a subtle grey tinge. A silhouette and his tattered leather jacket. The face materialises as he steps in.

Who better to represent the current woes of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third than _him_?

His eyes stare into an abyss – apparently near his feet.

A hearty sigh flees his throat – the age-old expression, articulating a sentence to no one in particular: _'I've failed.'_

An expression of sadness and contempt conquers his façade. Frustrated. Ashamed.

His soon-to-be mince-meat just stands there. Too frightened to make a sound. Or a move.

There were many borders you couldn't cross, and this is one of them. If he hadn't in mind thought about killing me yet, he will now.

It was only a little while until he saw that something was off in his tired state. It will only be a matter of time.

I bolt my eyes – Lisa, behind me, breathing like a dog.

He angles his eyes upwards. And, out of sheer contempt at seeing my slouching form, they widen. There was only one figure of expression that could jumble all of the emotions he is being bombarded with right now, and he says it:

 _"What._

 _The._

 _Hell?!"_


	33. Infighting

A blinding blizzard sweeps the air of the room. Tyrannous in its subzero depths. Ruinous. Ravaging. Annihilating.

You mustn't mistake it for its usually timid nature this time, though.

In lieu – this time – it has updated its terms and conditions, so that it should make no such exceptions for its victims.

And it is coming for my skin.

Two pairs of closed eyelids embellish their presence as the storm coats Lisa and I head to tail – the chilling, tingly sensation of sheer misery that runs through our veins.

We freeze under its wake.

You could never expect the source of this event, however, for it is not winter. Quite the contrary; it is autumn. No, the source of the breeze comes from the most unlikely of all…

A human.

I think you may get a fairly _good_ picture of who this human is.

And we are trembling. Trembling from being inaugurated under the weight of his soul-crushing burden.

I crack open my vision slightly. Crimson red stares back.

Gods.

I can almost caress the pain. It flutters between my fingers.

Only, the human emitting it acted upon the pain sooner than I ever could've hoped. My eyelids bolt shut.

Jacob screams his quaking heart out. _"Oh—oh, God! Lisa, no!"_

 _"Daddy, wait! Please! Liste—"_

Before Lisa could even finish, Jacob lunged for my hide. I strafe to the right, clumsily. Somebody is going to walk away and live another day today, and that somebody is probably not going to be me.

Spit rains from his fleshy depths _. "I'm gonna KILL you, you little shit!"_

 _"Stop, Daddy! Please, just listen to m-me!"_

Jacob shrugs off his daughter's comment as if it is some sort of fly as quick as it came. Even he can't afford to miss this little session of feeding frenzy. Within his muddled mind – a brief, yet descriptive menu.

 **The Main Course** :

- **My blood-**

 **The Side Dish:**

 **-Retribution-**

 **The Drink:**

 **-Implied justice-**

I mean, to be fair. That _does_ sound like good grub.

I shiver. Soon as I saw the daggers in his fingers being flung at me though, I duck for cover.

 _"C'mere!"_

The problem here now, though. It was there _were_ no covers.

So, I have to make do with second rate. The floor. And, needless to say, given my current physical stature, the floor gave no such covers for me.

In a flurry, I try to play a game of duck and cover with my assailant – crouching and hoping: that he would not get to me today. He responds like so.

With blood in his eyes.

A fist is flung at my head, drawing out a whine from my throat.

I dodge.

Inches, centimetres – I couldn't tell. It was just so gods-damned close. I gather my four legs and my million other body parts, flinging myself to the door.

So many instances I could have just pinned him down – perhaps just ram him to the wall with brute force – and call it a day.

But my nagging conscience deems it not.

 ** _-Why would I want to potentially incapacitate Lisa's only source of comfort?-_**

Oh, yeah.

Because that makes it no better than what that shadow at the back of mind did to me.

And that is telling.

My hands spasm in a frenzy – searching for that tiny, tiny purchase on the door frame.

The tip of my claw barely scathes it. The door frame simply had higher standards than I originally had anticipated. They burrow into the floorboards below.

My eyes, irrecoverable and in awe. At the level of my bloody _incompetence_.

I don't think this dragon body would change this trait about me. You can't teach a new dog new tricks, I guess.

I collect myself, my intention – to run away as far as possible from this place.

And wouldn't you know it?

Jacob intervenes.

By stomping down a very sharp burst of pain on my tail.

Good gods, did that sting!

I let out what sounds like the crossroads of a whine and a roar.

And, by Balder – it was so laughably pathetic.

I should be the one entering the comedy competition now. Not Gobber. And I'd win more than just the grand prize. The dispersing of my dignity! What a steal!

I let out a moan in my mind. Gods, that one sounded not much better.

Jacob leans in on me – the intent, clear as day.

For my soul to vanish from the face of this earth.

Then. The feeling. Of fingers tracing along my neck, soon snapping on it, like the jaws of a bear trap. I twitch.

It demanded an audience, for me to turn around; what to do but comply?

So, I do. What I didn't expect…

Was for it to double down on its efforts. To the point where I couldn't even breathe.

It chokes me. A fist swings at my face. The combined forces of all his burden, transferred into that one clout.

I struggle. Another blow.

I gurgle. Again.

I whine. And again…

I cough blood. And again.

 _"Fucking… DIE!"_

My eyes. They journey to Jacob's face. The animosity present in there—enough to make any animal jump out of their skin.

 _"Daddy! P-please! Stop!"_

My paws find themselves around his. They grip. I try so, so desperately. To get him to let go.

A futile effort. The magma broiling within him was simply too scorching for me to handle.

My tears. They find a way to burrow out of my eyes. The thrashing of my hind legs, the gurgling—too wasting of energy, too frequent. My heart, beating like it'll never live to beat another day.

The world holds its breath, all too knowing of the state of my consciousness. Should this continue…

It'd merely slip off this slanted edge.

Into the abyss of never-ending below.

 _"DAD!"_

 _"I am going to slaughter you like a fucking PIG once I am done with you!"_

How many punches, I have lost count. The blood from my mouth. Oh, the blood.

Generous is it in its contents – a stream.

But he is not done yet. Far. From it.

He wants to hold my soul accountable. For everything wrong in his life.

And, in a sense.

I am.

 _"Please…_

I could've been the cure he so desires. For his daughter. For her life.

For the only person he has to live for.

 _Dad…."_

What is more? I fail in that department.

And, now.

I am suffering the repercussions of my cowardice.

The full brunt of it. And the punishment? My life.

Not like it is worth anything to anyone anymore, anyway.

A finger, now the only difference between me and from that fall off the edge.

A few seconds pass. My face sits on the front row of Jacob's outburst. My grip—the last bit of tether remaining. Before. That fall…

I make peace.

I close my eyes. The red curtain descends.

And…

And then.

Once again…

Something I didn't expect.

And I certainly didn't expect it to be a sound.

 ** _-CLUNCK!-_**

The sound of a wooden plank hitting against solid something reverberates, echoes across the room.

Then, a body dropping.

Then, my breath.

A moment presents itself for me to catch it.

I seize it. Gluttonously.

I gasp and breathe like there would be no tomorrow.

I crack open my eyes, both in shock, and in unadulterated relief. The absence of hands around my neck makes itself known awkwardly and suddenly.

Wait,

What?

Looking upwards, Lisa gives me all the answers I need. She stands front of the candlelight, brandishing her diary with her two hands – her shadow, covering its mass across the entire room. It reigns over mine.

She shakes weakly. She breathes unsteadily.

An expression of both relief and regret dawns on her face.

Before I could even make a gesture to thank her, she falls. The silhouette that once correlated with presence, drowning along with her form.

Clearly, she is not clear for standing up.

Not just yet.

We struggle to find purchase in our steadiness to breathe.

Then,

We stare.

At each other.

We stare and stare. We keep staring.

And, sensing it so, the next part creeps in, to both the scene, and our minds.

As much as we implore it, we both have to let the thought in sooner or later.

The aftermath.

And the groaning body of Jacob lying before us.


	34. Bourgeoisie!

My head rests on the bruised skin of the house. Winded. Exhausted.

The emotional turmoil and a carcass of the destruction. They are all that adorns my peripherals.

The cyclone spared no victims this time. No survivors. No mercy.

Nothing could escape its lust for our individual breaking points in that room.

It just was.

And we were hit.

Hard.

Then, as soon as it started in its temporary reign, it left the room in a flurry. Indifferent of all responsibility.

Happy, with the malice it brought upon our very humanity.

With one big whack to the head.

So then only did the atmosphere calm, and the pheromones of regret it secretes slink into the pit of my heart. Twisting its strings. As if it was some sort of marionette.

Guess the atmosphere has a bit of… leeway treating it that way.

I sink down my form along the naked foundations of Jacob's sanctuary.

Beat, practically dead.

My paws defeatedly find their way to my sides.

And with that, one high and mighty sigh seeps from my maw. I am lucky that I hadn't learnt to breathe fire yet. Otherwise, I may have inadvertently killed Jacob then and there.

And I wouldn't want that, now would I?

The enormous black ovals that I call my eyes stare down at my hind legs. I'd be willing to wager that if another dragon came by, it'd send me to their draconic version of a reconditioning session.

So un-dragonlike.

I groan again.

I couldn't possibly skim on the number of things that had happened today, even if I tried.

Too many to comprehend, too many to count.

And to think that such a destructive cyclone emerged from them…

I'd rather not think or skim over it for now.

A good, long gaze into nothingness was all it took before my eyes find their way to the ceiling.

Brown. Drab. Worn. Dull.

Always the same.

Never changing.

I look forward, accessing the scene – partially feeling a bit more useless than usual.

What was once the mighty, vengeful Jacob – now, a groaning, drained corpse.

He has had enough for today, I can tell you that much.

I think I had hit a weak spot in his chainmail; his daughter.

Yeah…

Remind me never to do that again, please.

I look beyond the rubble.

By the foot of a worn bed, therein lies a dog-tired Lisa. Whereas my battle was the battle for air, _her_ battle was the battle for both her father's sanity and her own.

Comparing my battle to hers would be useless.

There exists incredibly little leverage between the two. Why?

Because she would win by a gods-damned _landslide_.

Or rather – poor choice of wording here – lose it. And, speaking of the devil…

Lisa is wheezing her stamina away – her hands rest flaccidly on the ground.

And yeah.

With the expression she has taken a liking to show, I think it is safe to say that she's had enough for today too.

Her head is craning to the side a little bit, refusing to look to her father.

Getting up and subsequently trying to swing the hardest hit you could have ever swung, all the while being in that kind of condition? One big fat no-no.

I may have been a doctor for a temporary while, but even _I_ know that that couldn't be good for you

The handicap would be only made even more shoddy if the intention was to hit someone out stone cold.

Her body just couldn't accept it – couldn't possibly afford let her off that easily; it wouldn't be nearly as invigorating.

But hey, if the intention was to milk as much tears as emotionally stretchable, then it is fair game for anybody. Even personified abstracts!

I look more closely at her, trying to decipher her emotions.

For a moment, I could have sworn that I saw Helvegr itself reflecting off her eyes.

Gods. Guilt must weight like an anvil on her conscience right now.

Hurting her one and only relative – her only father for that matter. An action like that shouldn't bode well with anybody.

So, why Lisa?

Why protect me? Just another stupid dragon? Why protect a stranger who had just harassed you to high Hel emotionally? Why protect a stranger that had ventured so needlessly far into personal matters; touching on things that shouldn't be touched?

Why?

I stare at her longingly. For an answer.

Only,

She keeps quiet. Her mouth sealed.

She doesn't answer.

She doesn't deliver.

She just sits there. Wheezing, coughing. Refusing to look at anybody in the room. With closed eyes.

Her soul is drifting blissfully in another plane of existence, doing everything in its power to avoid thinking about what it did.

Unfortunately, her body is doing everything in its might for her soul to do otherwise. Any longer on the floor, and she would have died.

So.

A groaning wheeze. A deafening creak of the floorboard.

And I am off.

Lisa is looking worse for wear; she needs her bed. She needs the rest. Movement is incompatible with this condition.

I close in with her form, whimpering with the pain of my tail.

Lisa isn't going to get delicate treatment, that's for sure.

I pick up with my gummy teeth. A seamless manoeuvre.

Her weight could only ever be good for me, not her. She may as well be a living fishbone.

Well.

She wouldn't be _living_ anymore if I don't start moving.

As gently as possible, I lay her down on her bed, pulling for her body a blanket to keep warm.

Having done my part, I rest on my back. All the while murmuring to myself in my head…

 _She shouldn't have stood. She shouldn't have helped._

And I should have died.

That way, everything in the world would be that little bit better. That way, my existence wouldn't be rendered moot, if somebody were to kill me. At least they would be laughing.

I'd bring about all the joy in the world if I was gone. Dad probably thinks the same way.

Had I not been born.

Had I died when I was drifted off to sea. For being birthed a runt.

Chieftainship must be hard when you have no reliable heirs to fall back on.

I can't imagine the shame he bears whenever he steps into his home.

Floating within the air, a sick, sick reminder everyday…

That I exist.

Well, whatever it is, I have to put aside these thoughts for a while. There's the Lisa problem I have to attend. It is gnawing away at me so much it physically hurts.

I try to wake her up. A half a dozen nudges and one big one later, and I have just about given up. Her eyelids refuse to crack open. Not even a little.

Gods, why does this have to be so complicated?

A hot huff of frustration voyages out of my maw.

I swear I could feel the barest instances of smoke, that time.

Looking away for a moment, I take a cautionary glance at Jacob.

An awful stench permeates the air – the danger that Jacob could wake up at any time and try to kill me again. This time though, help from Lisa would be a long time coming.

Yeah, don't think she is in any way suited for anything physical at the moment.

Guess it is all up to me now.

Quickly, I borrow her journal for a while, jotting down what I could remember from the Roman medical book. The amount of charcoal I have been using is wearing the stick thin.

Photographic memory isn't exactly my strong suit, as isn't the case for Gothi, so I try to illustrate what I have seen.

Then, seemingly out of sudden contrition, the floorboards cackle under my pressure.

 _What?_

I look down, reaffirming my hind leg on the floor. And... nothing.

Just the sound of Lisa wheezing.

Eh.

Must be a trick of the mind.

Well, it's either that, or I am slowly going crazy. That'd be horrifying.

I begin sketching.

It took around half a minute before the page outputted the results:

 ** _One purple looking plant_**

 ** _Fluids from the leaves from some prickly plant_**

 ** _Some rare-as-Hel honey that only exists in caverns_**

 ** _Stag blood_**

By Thor, that is a list and a half.

They all don't look all too accurate of drawings, but they should be recognisable enough.

…

Oh, who am I kidding?

I may be semi-decent at sketching things, but with those drawings requires me to visually realise in my head. And I don't have the best of memories.

My tongue licks the upper-half of my maw.

This expedition is going to take a while. I puff.

It was then when I felt something cold and pointed press against the back of my neck.

Oh, gods.

Jacob. I close the book.

He's going to finish the job with his dagger, isn't he?

 _"O-okay… please,"_ he starts. _"I… I am sorry about earlier, alright? I am sorry."_

His dagger shakes a little, and so does his voice.

 _"I… lost control. Seeing my baby girl… so close to… something so big and dangerous, I just… snapped. Please… I… I am at my wit's end. Please just… leave us be. If you are h-hungry… there's deer, there's rabbits, there's… oh, God, why am I even trying to reason with an animal?"_ He chokes, sulking up tears just begging to be let out. His hand tries to stop the river. _"I ruined us…"_

He fails.

 _"I ruined us…"_

Gods.

 _"I r-ruined us…"_

He is crumbling before me.

Crumbling.

And there's only one thing my conscience permits me to do.

Out of sheer empathy, I honour his wish. Stepping away from Lisa, motioning my head downwards.

His eyes widen. Not in shock, but in gratefulness.

He wipes the strands of tears away.

 _"Th…"_ he stutters. _"Thank you. T-thank you so much. I don't how you understood me, but… thank you."_

I step back to give him more space for his daughter.

He follows through.

Kneeling, he hugs his daughter:

 _"I am sorry, Lisa. I... I failed you. I don't have the cure… I broke my promise. Oh, God…"_

Lisa, no matter how hard Jacob pleas, doesn't respond. She just wheezes.

Her throat fails her, and soon enough, her body will too. Now, it is only a matter of when.

She only opens her eyes slightly, much to Jacob's relief. _"Oh, Lisa, oh…"_

Jacob hugs her tighter, refusing to let go. He is as stubborn as a bear trap, but who can blame him? When the light of your life will soon disappear?

The two of us thought that she would be too weak to do anything, but, sure enough, there seems to be a little more fight in her than we anticipated.

Weakly, she raises a pointed finger.

Deep inside, I think: _Lisa… no, no, point somewhere..._

At her diary.

 _...else._

 _"Do you want me to…?"_

Lisa nods once. Jacob complies.

He reaches a hand to the night desk, taking it.

Oh, no.

If he tells everyone that every dragon is literate and not bloodthirsty like me… humanity will be in for a world of pain. As far as I know, I am one of the only rational-thinking dragons, if not, the _only_ rational-thinking dragon, in the world. If I were able to sweat right now, I'd be raining beads.

He inspects it.

He flips to one of the later pages. _My_ pages.

Jacob smiles meekly. _"I guess you aren't strong enough, huh? These words are enormous. And are you talking to? Who's… the Black Angel?"_

My skin sheathed cold. Frantically, I shake my head like how a mad dog would. _You… stop! He can't know!_

She turns to me, then smiling: _Oh, yes, I will._

 _Oh, please don't._

By the time I replied, she turns her full attention to her father.

And she shakes her head. Pointing to me.

I think I felt my scales go white with Jacob's.

He slowly, slowly turns to me, in both awe and in horror.

 _"You… you can understand us?"_


	35. Shimmer by the Silken Taal

**I went ahead and changed most of the content of the earlier chapters. Why? More QOL treatment. I thought their pacing was** wayyyyyyy **off and in sore need of change. That's where I have been – and on top of that, exams too.**

 **Yay.**

 **Anyways, on with the fic.**

* * *

Here's a touching story:

Once upon a time, there lived a girl in the magical world of Absence-Of-Dragons.

She wore a patch-covered dress, bore crystalline sapphire eyes, and adorned herself with blonde hair. She even endowed a pair of bracelets, handcrafted from the feathers of a magpie.

However, as with every fairy tale, it wouldn't be sunshine and rainbows for this little girl.

Instead, she was struck down by God with a cruel illness. The nastiest, most volatile cough had built its main base of operations around the crevices of her neck; the cough didn't care for her livelihood, her safety. She was left for dead.

She was far too weak; far too unworthy for Mother Nature to come and save her.

No matter how hard her hardworking father tried to cure her illness, it would always end with disappointment and despair.

The medicine he gave the girl, the advice from various practitioners, the many prayers to her deity.

All those efforts that, in the end, bore no fruit.

So, every day, within the confines of crumpled bedsheets and a worn bed, the sick girl sings out her window:

 _O Mother Nature,_

 _Why art thou?_

 _You have bedridden me beyond repair, leaving both my father and I no warning beforehand._

 _Now I lay here, suffering, every day. Hoping for a day that my cure would come._

 _But of course, Nature, I realise that you are a stringent one._

 _For you will do everything in your power for that day not to come._

 _So please,_

 _from the very bottom of my aching heart,_

 _Go fuck yourself._

She sings and sings her song; at the top of her lungs. But alas, it was not meant to be. The Mother would not hear her call.

All Nature did was leave her. To rot on her mattress.

The situation all seemed hopeless and forlorn and useless – there seemed to be little light at the end of this murky tunnel.

It was then, on one grey and misty day, a dragon by the name of the Black Angel came by to check on her.

He was the cornerstone of mediocrity – a slave to the introvert. And goddamn it _yes_ , if _he_ isn't who she just needed to help her.

Thus, with joy in her heart and fireworks in her eyes, she greeted the Black Angel with open arms and one closed palm.

With a long, thin stick up his arse.

And, to him, it gods-damned hurt!

 _"Aiiieee!"_

He jumped to the ceiling, leeching his claws into the plywood – a loose paw found its way to soothe his plump butt.

 _"W-…"_ stutters The Black Angel. _"What the Hel was that for?!"_

To that, the coughing girl rotated her head slowly, slowly to the dragon,

And pointed the middle finger just to obligatorily spite him.

With that, she smiled, pulled up her blanket to cover herself, and everybody lived happily ever after,

 _-The End-_

…

I hope you all liked it.

A lot of hard work went into this.

I'll have you all know that I tried to remain as true as draconly possible to the source material when I wrote this… it all seemed just moments ago was that insatiable thirst for excitement quenched.

…

And by the gods' sweet, fat buttocks, is that round piece of yak _shit_ that the girl calls a face is so punch-able right now.

Gods! Sorry about that episode earlier, but I just couldn't help myself. It has become a very unhealthy habit of mine to mock up stories to ease the pressure on my temples.

The girl sitting opposite of her gaze-tranced father may have just jeopardised and unravelled this whole operation; not just for me, but for other explorers' lives as well if a certain somebody doesn't end up keeping his trap mouth shut.

The thing is, the worst part of the whole ordeal has yet to come.

Need I remind you of it?

You needn't look further than who is standing in front of me.

Jacob.

And an ailing question standing mockingly next to him.

Hey, you want to know the cherry on top of this whole thing? I don't know how to _respond_.

I mean, what could I respond with? A nod? A—a, uh… a smile?

If it is a shake of the head he'd know I understand them regardless.

Even I try to run away, he'd know that something is off about me too. I am being stuck in a pickle here, and I am not liking it, not by any stretch.

 _Oh, just what do I do? What do I do?_

I turn to Lisa with pleading in my eyes, begging her to say that "I was just kidding!"

Only, she doesn't. She smiles instead.

Then Lisa, so far having been a sleeper agent throughout this entire situation, decides to answer for me.

With a tug of the wrist, a glance from Jacob,

And a weak nod which seized the lives of millions.

Good gods.

Jacob, having acquired this newfound information, slowly, carefully turns to face me.

An open jaw and an expression of awe creep onto his face.

My ears droop.

 _He knows_.

My heart may as well have jumped out my throat.

And soon following my heart… was my tolerance for stress.

My eyes cave in upwards into my eyelids.

And then, in almost anti-climactic fashion,

I collapse to the ground like a ragdoll.

As I fall, I catch, for a momentary second, the expressions that have formed on Jacob's and Lisa's faces.

The former held confused eyebrows with crooked lips of concern. The latter had eyes that simply look on – not worried at all for my outcome. If anything, they look annoyed.

 _'You'd have to be actively trying really hard to pass out like that.'_

I know, Lisa.

I know.

I am simply too good for myself, aren't I?

Involuntarily, I faze my eyes shut – disregarding all that's left in the world.

* * *

…

I…

I honestly didn't know what I expected.

By Odin's beard.

You'd—you'd think that I'd come to like how a normal person would this time, but nooooo…

Of course, I am in my head again.

Of course, I wake up here after having writhed in a cataclysm of emotional agony.

All that's left would be for the stage to cue the lights & the inevitable mind-melt and you'd have the perfect formula for formulaic monotony.

Well, not monotony, but you get the point. I am in my head, both figuratively and literally.

…again.

Breathing a heart-felted groan, my front hind-legs fold into one another, waiting patiently for something to happen.

Moments walk by.

No matter how many times I call out to them by name, they couldn't care less.

I linger even more, despite its insistence.

And...

Nothing.

None of them seems at all interested in showing me sheep dung. Gods, you know you have stooped low when even your own body refuses to work with you.

I look down, disappointed.

Just when I had about given up all hope, my brain – seemingly out of response – materialises in front of me a leafless, soulless tree.

There isn't much to talk about other than it being dead.

Scorched and lifeless, it remains to be seen how in the Hel it had stood the test of time. Now attracted, curious and partially worried black ovals narrow in on it, trying to crack its code.

 _What's it trying to say this time?_

My hindlegs jut forward to look closer.

Only to have what looked like a tail fin swing at me out of thin air instead.

I jump, my back later meeting firsthand the scathe of the prison floor.

 _ACK!_

Letting out a groan, I try to straighten my poise out to make out what happened.

Dry chuckles seep into my mind as a constituent. My figure weakens a bit.

"Honestly, with a dexterity like yours, it's easy to forget that you are still alive."

What kind of Hel-spawn voice is that?

I spin around the landscape, in desperate need of a lead.

The voice annoyedly sighs again. "…and your sense of depth perception too, apparently. Fine."

"W—" I stammer. "What do you mean by 'fine'?"

I can almost _feel_ the owner of the voice facepalm.

The tail fin swings at me again, making sure it had struck. And it did.

On my head.

"Ow!" I yelp, massaging the inflicted area. "What was that for?"

"Above you."

My head moves in unison with the aided direction.

Above me, a dark, shrouded figure rests back-first on branches jutting out of the tree's cobweb-like branches.

The thing blended in so well I couldn't even see its outline, let alone its figure.

Its scales shimmer underneath the blanket of an illuminated white; sleek in figure and hypnotic in poise, her tail ticks and tocks like the bottom hands of an English clock.

Almost to showboat, its wings sing to their half-expense, shielding its face from the white, but not enough to shield me.

 _Shit._

The entity.

It came to visit.

How fitting.

Ovals closing in, I catch a peculiarly crooked smile gracing the front-side of its double-crossing face, almost empathetic to see me.

Out of her teeth, it utters: "You look worse for wear."

I couldn't help but rebuke. "You don't say?"

Its gaze stares me down for a while, studying me intently.

It frowns.

"And for the record, Hiccup," it adds. "I wouldn't be in my gull to study you. Just… appreciating."

"O—" Shit. "Oh."

I forgot just how much it knew.

 _Everything._ It laughs at my expense.

"You're just so damned adorable sometimes. Getting all flustered over something that you could very well improve on." Pausing, its loose paw points a finger at me. "Anyway. You want to know why I am here, right?"

My ears perk – my unbridled attention, gripped thin with vice.

 _"_ You may not know it, but I have been watching from the sidelines for the longest time," it continues. _"_ True enough, my timing left a lot to be desired, but I see it now. I see that you've picked up the habit of helping others…"

My eyes widen.

Hoping to correct it, I scramble to find my voice. "No. No, no, no, no. Y-you… you got it all wrong. I don't—"

"Oh, but you do want to help them."

"No, I don't. I mean, I d-do... but..."

"Well, whatever the case may be, Hiccup, you can't change my mind."

"But—"

"Shhh… dear Hiccup." Its tail conceals my mouth. "There's no need to deny it. It only ever makes things needlessly complicated – and we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

Without having to venture any further, I silence myself. I have it on good authority that it's not going to budge.

Smiling, its tail comes off my mouth.

"Good, good," it murmurs, an undertone of a snake's hiss, escaping its mouth. "Now that you have picked the habit of helping others, I thought it'd only be fair if I lend a helping hand as well."

"W-w… what?"

"Oh, yes."

"You… you wouldn't want to help me. I am—"

"Useless?" Vibrations tremble the ground carrying my feet. And, unsure of the right words to say next, I replied with the only way I know how.

"Yes," I reply. "Yes, I… I am much too useless for any of your concern to help…"

"Them?" it finishes for me. "Please; you aren't useless, nor are you a lost cause. The conversation you had with Lisa earlier proved that. The words you uttered and the impact you had on her… they were mere glimpses of what you could be. You don't exactly have to be physically or mentally apt in everything; you only ever have to work with what you have. In that case, it was your tongue. Thus…"

Just before it finishes, it pauses for a brief while, almost as if pondering its next sentence.

"Well," it follows. "I think you should hear it for yourself. When you wake up."

Just then, the prison floors crack and hinge below me. Sidestepping wouldn't help – everywhere else followed.

In desperation, I try to lift myself from the cracking surface, but it so appears that my winged efforts are too little too late.

My wings won't budge.

The floor crackles. It couldn't take me anymore.

It would only be mere moments before...

The shatter. Soon after, it does.

I fall.

The only thing that remained of my presence in the dome was an audible cuss and a shriek.

A cascading blinding of white light overwhelms my senses.

Dropping, the figure flew in unison – wings, upholding its weight.

"Until then, Hiccup."

It moves closer.

"Have faith."

Just like that, it vanishes.

Leaving me there, breathless.

And, soon enough, my conscience would leave too.

I let it.

* * *

A pinhole. The world looked the size of one.

Where was I again?

Opening my eyes further, more and more do I ornament the mundanity of the ceiling surface.

Brown. Drab. Worn. Dull.

Now, where have I seen this particular palette before, hmm…?

…

Oh.

Oh, shit.

That's where.

I am in Jacob Estate.

In the crux of the infesting Lisa problem. Feeling the tension of the room escalate, my efforts tried to leap out of my coffin-like state.

My tail protested against it instead.

And that singular action made me feel like that my own pain receptors are actively trying to work against me.

It felt as if I fell bosom-first onto a porcupine's chimichangas.

"ODIN'S GREAT BEARD!"

I leap off my hind legs.

Higher than I intended to as usual, of course.

My skull rams into the grit of the ceiling, causing a yell to leave my throat.

"Agh! Gods!"

Landing on the ground, my paw, for what may as well be the trillionth time today, still finds its way to massage it.

I sigh, staring at the ground.

...

It only took a few seconds to sink in.

 _Wait, what?_

How did I…

"…speak?"

As soon as that… that _word_ left my mouth, I strive for the life of me to cover my trap with both my paws. And as I do, a familiar phrase echoes in my head…

 _What..._

 _the…_

 _Hel…?_

Moments pass.

I remain as motionless as a statue. Too static, too mentally erratic from the shock.

 _It._

It did this.

But how?

For all the possible medical books I've read, none of them state swapping vocal chords as something possible. Hel, somebody undergoing a procedure like _that_ would probably die of blood loss in seconds.

And I don't recall Jacob being that much of a medicine person.

So… who in the Hel is _it_?

Is it a demon, sent from the depths of Helgevr?

Am I some… some sort of sick plaything to it?

I have a whirlwind ravaging through my mind right now, and feeling half-tempted to swear out loud every known expletive in the Nordish language _can't_ be healthy.

 _"A-angel?"_

Like a master switch, my quarter-life crisis turns off in an instant. A sudden, more pressing matter seems to have surfaced.

A witness.

I slowly, slowly turn to the direction the voice came from.

Lying before my eyes was a blanket-covered figure; tired eyes, pale skin and all. Mortally sick.

Lisa.

Opening her mouth, she speaks her mind loud and clear: _"S-s-sorry f-for what I did e-earlier."_

Hand covering mouth, she stops to cough.

 _"But…_

The girl's spine rises, eyebrows frowning.

 _w-why c-couldn't you speak to me the f-first time?"_


	36. That One Time We Weren't Really Real

It had only been six years when I declared, in staunch, bear-hearted belief, that I knew everything in the world. The solution to every problem; the tactics to any strategy; the yin to every yang; the answer to every question.

True enough, there were a few murmurs in the crowd, a couple of eyes rolling in the dark, some chuckles spouted almost beyond earshot here and there. No matter the shame, no matter what veracity, it couldn't possibly bother my six-year-old brain back then what The Great Hall thought of me.

In front of me, as far as my two eyes were concerned, stood, in uniform fashion, everything that had ever mattered.

Row after row of Vikings standing in glorious and envious spectacle, lifting tankards of ale in ever-living reign of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third.

There would lie in the hall a feast for the ages.

I knew, just then, being one true heir to Chief Stoick the Vast, that I was going to conquer the world.

...

It is in moments precisely like this where I wish somebody had popped my bubble sooner.

Now, am left eating those words up.

There wouldn't be an answer to the question.

Either I open up and risk Jacob and Lisa affirming me as a permanent fixture on their _who-not-to-ever-trust-like-ever_ list, or lie, reassuring them I am as much as a victim of the moment as they are.

Ah, how I wonder, which would be the better option to pick…?

 ** _-Anybody who chose the former – do yourself an obligation and hang your head down in_** _shame **-**_

Yes. I'd tell them a lie, but I'd also tell them part of the truth as well: that dragons are not who Jacob and Lisa think they are.

Actual dragons are much, much worse.

Hoping to mask my current conjecture, my expression shifts and turns to stare at her, deadpan.

 _"Yes, yes. I… could have said something earlier, Lisa. Use my voice."_ For the sake of making an argument, my front paws dig into the hoarseness of the wooden planks, soon lifting me up. I straighten my back – my foul shadow, rising over the bedridden girl, to which she slumps at. _"B-but… you must understand my position here."_

If human ears could perk, hers would.

 _"My… k-kin,"_ my figure weakens, ears partially drooping at the noun, _"I am not like them, not in the slightest. I mean, you would be lucky to find a few who are, if at all."_ My raggedy breath quakes under my sigh. _"You see, they can't exactly… talk,_ _or think, for that matter."_

Lisa's eyebrows arch down, head tipping to the side. She asks, rather weakly, soothing her throat: _"W-what do you m-mean they c-can't think?"_

I chance a deadpan gaze at her. _"Oh, they can think. But not in the way you'd like them to. They can think about their next meal or their next hunt… all perfectly well. But they wouldn't think about_ you _,"_ weakly, my tipped finger points meekly at her, _"instead, they think about what they can do to you. They… they beat you up, kick you limp when you are down, berate you for not being a mirror image of them. Strong warriors, they asked for – I apparently didn't meet that criterion. Needless to say, I was shunned. Practically cast out from my own home,"_ my eyes stare off into the distance, _"they didn't want… kin like me. Didn't want a change to the status quo. Stuck to what they knew of and lived off that,"_ I exchange looks with her again, _"hmph, what's for me to say? It worked."_

We barter glances – one indifferent about the whole thing and one concerned about said indifference.

I may have gone off on a tangent and told a synopsis about what amounts to my life story right in front of her, but I couldn't care less.

It feels nice to let out things that shouldn't be once in a while.

Locking things up inside is never a good thing.

But then, it hit me. Not answering her question.

I scuttle to find the words. _"In summary, Lisa, they do shitall for change. Reason, even. And it would only take a single glimpse of you before they make you their supper. Not a very appetising one at that!"_

At that, she stares at me in horror.

Hah!

…

Shit.

Scrambling, I try to save face. _"Well, can't say for myself, of course. I am only going off on what they said. That it tasted good, though unfulfilling. Said it tasted like… tuna."_

She maintains her stare.

 _"What?"_ I fold my front hind legs, masking defensiveness. _"Not_ my _fault they decided to eat Vikings."_

Her face makes the in-betweens of a scowl and one of bewilderment. _"You are weird."_

 _"What, the part about eating humans or…"_

 _"Both!"_

That left my sarcastic high-horse slapped with a reality check right quick, leaving me no other choice but to settle for humility. _"Ah."_

There reared at me Awkwardness' ugly head again; this time, however, the relationship seemed eternal. Her shoulder looked to remain forever cold.

Going by the expression on her face, I have only sought to establish her scepticism even further; her look only radiates scorn.

Over there, on the bitterness of the cabin floor, we stood in silence. And in silence did we remain.

It's ironic.

I have become the very thing I have worked to destroy. But I shouldn't be expecting anything less by now.

Life doesn't look to appease those who are earnest.

If anything, life works to go against them. Well, sometimes.

It's the embodiment of a wild child. A psychopathic, senseless wild child.

And be that as it may, I dare say it wouldn't have it any other way.

Gods.

I really have done nothing for myself but dig a bigger hole.

It'd take some form of persuasive genius on my part to break this ice.

Apologising first and foremost would be a good start. _"Look, I… I am sorry about what I said. It hadn't come to mind how alienating this must feel to… norm-"_

It was just then when Lisa decided she had other plans.

 _"N-no, no, A-angel,"_ she says. _"I… I c-couldn't care less about what you s-said. E-even if you told m-me your family flat-out… killed for sport, I wouldn't bat an eye. What m-mattered, to m-me at least, was the way you said it – you were clearly lying. Sounded like you were trying too_ _hard."_

In moments, the fantasy world I had crafted for her shattered in an explosion of glittering white. Utterly decimated.

She's smarter than I give her credit for. The accessor… has become the accessed.

As all of this chugged along, I debated with myself whether or not I should tell her the truth.

Damned if I did, damned if I didn't.

Smart.

In seconds, I decide:

 _Yes._

The mouth that was once reluctant opens.

 _"A—"_ I stutter. _"All right, Lisa, you got me. I will… come clean. There was no dragon family, no murderous kin, though that wouldn't be far off, actually - and there wasn't any cast out; but… there were Vikings,"_ I raise a pointed claw at her, _"and…_ oh, by Thor… _to you, this story will probably sound just as mad."_

My eyes gloomily slouch, partially downcast.

A finger touches my chest, making me look up.

A smile had spread shakily on Lisa's face, though, more of the hysterical kind. _"Honestly, at this point, I'd believe just about anything. What with you and… the existence of talking animals. Just... weird. However crazy, I am in."_

My eyes spread wide. _"You sure?"_

She weakly nods. _"Positive."_

Having got her approval, I toss my thoughts in a jumble, eyes wandering to the side: _how exactly_ did _I end up in what may as well be three quarters across the Scandinavian Seas?_

A solitary claw ventures little over the lower of my jaw, lightly tapping on it. _Where do I even begin?_

Glimpses of time pass, unsure of what to make of my dilemma. Then, as if lightning had struck, a revelation finally came upon me, one that'd surely make me hit myself on the head over later on.

 _When better to start than the beginning?_

* * *

As I shared my plight with Lisa, I did my best spare her the sparest of detail. Don't want to be labelled as a repulsive liar again, no sir.

My name, my people, my village, my culture, my faith, my past – everything I could have thought of.

That tagline is reserved for people the likes of Ruffnut and Tuffnut – even Bucket for that matter.

But… it wouldn't have hurt to avoid some of my more… personal moments in life, right?

…

Well…

Whatever the case, the point of it all yet remains.

That sometimes, truth can be stranger than fiction.

She looks to me, expression slightly dulled. _"Y-you know,"_ she starts. _"You are r-right. Your story_ is _kind of crazy,"_ she adjusts for a more comfortable position on her bed, letting out her mouth a held breath, _"but… I know b-beyond doubt now that you are t-telling the truth."_

I frown. _"What makes you so sure that all of it was true?"_

Her response was almost immediate.

 _"Well, i-it's how y-you s-said it again, I guess. N-not once did your face say otherw-wise."_

 _"Since when did you become so good in psychology?"_

Now it was her turn to frown. _"I was never good at psychology. It was just a matter of common sense."_

I reel back, flabbergasted.

 _"Oh."_

Again, I've been bested in the art of comebacks. What's more to love about this girl?

Under my breath, a murmur escapes. _"Tala frá gøra meira af sér…"_

Her eyebrows arch. _"What?"_

 _"Nothing."_

At that, Lisa straightens her pose, magically pulling out of herself unkempt strength to lift herself up.

As swiftly as the conversation started, as does swiftly the room sift into silence again. Lisa folds her lips.

Not finding anything in me that I wanted to start again, she gives it a crack. _"So…"_

I turn to her.

 _"Umm… a-any idea what to tell Dad?"_

Oh, gods.

Jacob.

I had not even begun to consider _his_ role in all of this yet. He could now be working against me for all I know. Bringing at the front doorstep a mob, hiring a band of mercenaries – I-I don't know. Anything could happen.

My head cranes to her, shaking. _"No."_

 _"Oh."_

I let out a sigh. _"Where is he anyway?"_

 _"In the woods. H-hunting for deer hide. Dad went right a-ahead when you passed out,"_ she points a finger at a half-empty bowl on her night desk, coughing a little, _"needed more coin f-for more of that… 'magic' juice over there. H-has always kept my coughing at bay – doesn't outright cure it, d-doesn't make it worse either. Just… l-lessens the symptoms. Think that's the m-main reason why we are crippled financially. P-put simply, the cost to supply r-ratio is… well. Let's just say that Dad and I are the end result. For now, my throat's a bit better. Though, whether it'd stay that way is another thing entirely,"_

I chuff. _"Huh."_

 _"Mm."_

She shifts for a more comfortable position on her bed. Her expression then shifts, morphing into one with foreboding.

Her mouth holds itself half-open.

 _"You know, if this keeps on going, i-if this ends up being routine… I don't think I am not going to m-make it."_

Ugh. Just when I thought I have broken her out of that trance. _"How so?"_

 _"My drink… it can o-only do so much before my body renders it obsolete,"_ she answers. _"It's… it's not working as well as it u-used to."_

 _"Ah."_

In silence we began, in silence we remain.

So, we sit, counting sheep as the time dragged by.

And, it was in those precious, surmountable seconds before realizing…

I am a bumbling, forgetful moron.

Can you believe it? I forgot about her diary. And the damned ingredients I drew on it!

 _"Lisa…"_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _"Remember the time I went off suddenly to write in your journal?"_

 _"Uh… I think I s-succumbed to a minor c-case of passed-out-itis for a bit…? Dad d-didn't tell me anything."_

 _"Oh, right. So you wouldn't have known…"_

 _"Known what?"_

I lean in slowly to her. _"That I wrote the cure."_

Her mouth stands open in utter awe. _"No… you are shitting me."_

 _"Nope."_

A sharp lungful squirms out her ragged breath. _"Holy…"_

 _"Mm-hmm."_

 _"Do you… do you mind if I...?"_

 _"Oh, no, not at all."_ After my little voyage to and fro her night desk, I plop the diary onto her chest. _"Here you go."_

What initially was the energetic yet impatient Lisa became a shell of her former self. Intently, she focuses in on the journal, determined to decipher the ingredients needed to fix herself.

Sometime later, her expression morphs into something else. Not in the way I'd like it to, though.

Instead of relief, she wears one of pity.

Unsteadily, she unfastens her aperture.

 _"Hiccup, I a-appreciate what you're trying to do here, but… but you are killing me with these ingredients."_ I tilt my head sideways, trying to understand her. _"I… they may have been common to f-find back in… Bork?"_

 _"Berk."_

 _"Yeah, Berk. The stuff may have been cheap, may have been abundant, maybe even harvested. I-I don't know what the crop situation's like over at your place, but they c-cost a small fortune over here. Ginseng and all the rest… y-you'd be lucky to find just_ one _."_

 _"Lisa."_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _"You're going to make it."_

 _"Y-yeah, it will just take a million other obstacles to get there."_

 _"We will get through them."_

She looks down on herself. _"I hope."_

As the sentence goes quiet, a dreadful stillness fills the void once again, neither party knowing what to say.

If I had a piece of groschen for every time this conversation has propelled itself off the cliff, I'd have enough to buy Lisa's medicine myself.

Then, out of the blue, Lisa's hand covers her mouth, trying to hold back a…

Chuckle.

Soon, it turned into all-out hilarity.

She laughs and laughs as if all the soil on this earth had turned into fluffy kittens.

 _What is up with this kid?_

Since there's nobody else here to say it, I will. _"Uh… are you okay?"_

 _"No, no. I m-mean yes!"_ A sudden cough breaks her resolve. _"I just thought about s-something funny."_

 _"What's funny?"_

She lifts her arm up slowly, a finger aiming its scopes at me. _"You."_

I point a claw at my chest. _"M-me?"_

 _"Yeah. You."_

 _"What did_ I _do?"_

 _"You existing. You and your… talking."_

I think I felt myself offended at that. _"Look, I may have a slight problem with my… emotions… but you don't have to hammer my problem in."_

 _"I am not trying to h-hammer in anything."_

 _"Then what else could you possibly be laughing at?"_

She shrugs. _"Talking animals. Just the concept."_

Lifting a hand up, she motions it like a sock puppet. _""Hey, uh, sorry to intrude, but, care to spare a moment to talk about the mating pr-ractices of cockle birds?""_

She breaks into honest laughter. _"Now_ that _'d be something worth telling in a tavern."_

My eyebrows raise. _"Wait, wait, wait; you drink?"_

 _"Drank,"_ she corrected, lifting a finger. _"A-and I only did it_ once _. Never again. Thought I would only dislike the taste, not outright despise it. Far too overrated for its own good. I… I get the getting-tipsy part, but getting there… good L-lord. May as well not have started drinking in the first place. Dad was far too busy receiving the courtesy of the townsfolk to understand my plight. I mean, w-who am I to judge? He did."_

Wait, Jacob has a party trick? _"What did he do?"_

 _"He told. Stories, I mean. It was p-practically obligation once he set foot in the hall. Used to always tell the tavern all about h-his own little world… before I, well, you know."_

I know I should never allow my no-good nosey ass to get in the way, but it was too tempting not to resist. _"Were they good?"_

 _"Oh, definitely. His stories brought about all sorts of re-responses. Some laughter… some tears. But at the end of the day, his s-stories were all good fun. That's the general consensus, I think."_

 _"So… he works as a bard,"_ I guess.

 _"Wish he was… but nope."_

 _"Surely, an author?"_

 _"Nu-uh,"_ she rebukes. _"L-like I said, he's a hunter by trade."_

Not comprehending, I remain slouched – slightly dumbfounded. _"Wait… so, your Dad… writes stories in his pastime – something that he enjoys, right?"_

 _"Yep."_

 _"And… he wrote **good** ones that he proved everyone could enjoy, correct?"_

 _"Uh-huh."_

 _"So… remind me why isn't he an author again?"_

 _"I…"_ Lisa pauses, pondering her next words. _"No, actually, now that you m-mention it… why **isn't** he an author? Wait, wait. Why wouldn't he be one? There's n-nothing stopping him."_

A gaping mouth fastens itself onto her face. _"Holy. Shit. Why haven't I thought of this earlier? Why hasn't **Dad** thought of this earlier?"_

She looks at me for an opinion, to which I shrug at. _"You are telling me."_

She puts her hand on unbraided hair. _"Jesus,_ _Mary and Joseph."_

 _"Mm."_

She turns. Facing the wall.

 _"Oh, and Lisa?"_

She turns back at me.

 _"Please don't tell anyone I can talk."_

 _"A..."_ she starts. _"Alright. I won't... blow your cover."_

I sigh in relief. _"Thank yo-"_

Jacob, rather rudely, barges in into the bedroom, carrying what looked like gauze and a touch of alcohol in hand.

Lisa and I were so caught up with our own theoretical conclusions, we never considered where we were now.

And we paid the price: two pieces of jolts and a quarter portion of scream to the side. "BY THOR!"

He himself had a little shock as well. _"Christ Jesus, sorry!"_

Lisa looks at him with a frowned, slightly annoyed expression – apparently, she couldn't care less. _"W-where have you been?"_

 _"To get your dragon friend here some bandages and relief. The bear trap left quite the impression on his leg. Had a friend who had some to spare… what about it?"_

 _"I thought you... you know what? Forget it. I j-just… wanted to a-ask a question. Can I…?"_

 _"Alright, shoot."_

 _"W-wh…"_ she begins before coughing a little. _"W-why haven't you tried publishing any of your stories yet?"_


	37. Broiling Magma and A Pretty Good Steak

Of all the things Jacob expected Lisa to ask him on this grey, overcast midday… it definitely wasn't this.

In stunned unmask, he supplies her a gaze nothing short of pure, ostracized horror. It could only mean one thing.

Something that he didn't account for.

Now that it was exposed for all the world to see, knowing how to react appropriately was beyond him.

Mouth slightly ajar, Lisa raises an eyebrow. Judging him. And, although he is still recovering from the shock, he finds his voice. _"Uh…"_

Quickly, Jacob places the bandages on her night desk, hands folding, _"well. Huh. Stories. Yes, stories."_

From there, Jacob purses his lips, a single hand placing itself on her shoulder. He looks at her, regret filling his eyes. _"Lisa, I…"_ He breathes in deeply, leaning in. _"B-believe me when I say this. Of course, I considered it. Only somebody wrought with lunacy wouldn't consider having their favourite pastime as their career. But, the problem you have here, Lisa… I still have a long way to go. Compare my work to scholars and you'd be relating fish to elks on land."_

Her eyes quake open, recovering from the blow. An air of doubt orbits about the room. But the persistent Lisa stays patient as ever.

She draws a breath, swaying me to pay the utmost attention. _"What… what do y-you mean?"_

 _"Well…"_ he straightens his form – quite matter-of-factly, _"they aren't good."_

 _"Uh… no. No, they aren't."_

 _"Uh… yes. Yes, they are."_

The two forces lean in into one another, locking gazes; neither of them involving or acknowledging the dragon standing not two paces from them.

Thank gods.

After a while of watching the paint peel, Lisa eventually decides enough was enough.

She breaks the mould.

 _"I doubt it, dad,"_ Lisa utters under her breath, ending the silence. She thumbs to the back of her. _"The townsfolk at the bar say otherwise."_

He works a counter. _"Well, the townsfolk at the bar_ also _walk a fine line between passing out and managing to stand upright."_

 _"And… t-those who were sober…?"_

 _"Making sure my feelings weren't hurt."_

 _"Holy…"_ Her two fingers frustratingly pinch her forehead. She had been shot down. A few moments, and she is off again. _"Is there_ a-anything _I can do to c-convince you?"_

He was about to say something before deciding against it.

Then settling for a look of…

Indignity.

 _"I…"_ he sighs. _"I guess not."_

She crosses her arms, a bit ticked off – and to be honest, I am starting to feel that way as well.

I get the part where his work may be rejected, but where the Hel is the harm in trying?

 _"Sweetie,"_ Jacob chips in, not taking any solace in her reaction. _"I… I am sorry. I would very much have preferred published stories over the… alternatives."_

He readies himself, coughing a little. _"But… circumstances are different here. Lest you wish us to rouse a mob demanding our hanging, none of my work can ever hit the shelves. A formula was established by the academy; you'd know better than to diverge from it. If I made such a move, or even hinted at such, they'd end up dead on arrival."_

She frowns, astonished at her father's justifications. _"How could you possibly be so sure they would?"_

His voice raises a tone.

 _"Because folks exactly like me – the aspiring, the naïve – attempted time and time again. To persuade them. Only to fail."_ He stands with gruff hands on his hips. _"Time and time again."_

I feel smoke rise out of my ears. By Thor, his stubbornness reminds me of _Dad's_!

And yet, I make not a sound, my voice, muffled by the leering gaze of self-doubt.

And in protest, Lisa shakily points a finger up to the air. _"But… there also lies the hidden advantage of yours actually being good."_

 _"By commonplace standards, perhaps. By Academic standards, not a chance."_

Shot down.

Again.

Lisa, a bit flurried at Jacob's stubbornness, quickly assembles a counter-argument under her belt.

But she didn't expect to be shot down once more.

At this point, it wouldn't surprise me if he is actively trying to get his daughter killed.

 _"I… forgot to mention that you'd have to pass through their… 'test'. The little shits practically rule the production services under an iron fist,"_ he forms one to get his point across, _"and… unless proposed works follow their formula – down to a tee – I don't see anything getting off."_

Her lips cave in. Mine follow suit. _"Is t-there really… nothing we can do?"_

He sighs. Tearing slightly. Grave.

Powerless.

 _"…no."_

A miserable gloom, which was only small instances of thoughts at first, soon overwhelm the air in a blundering cataract of sadness.

An air, dank and bitter, licks playfully at my naked skin; echoing to me:

'Why are you such a gods-damned _chicken_?'

The taste of death mingles mockingly on my taste buds, twirling to the sound of Lisa's gruelling, suffering demise.

I can envision it so well.

Lisa's blood, dripping from my jagged claws, trickling onto the bitter wood below me, tears emanating as the candle dances and sings happily to a tune:

A ballad around my self-centeredness.

I only ever thought for myself – my survival, my protection; and in this case, my image.

So. Insecure.

And so needlessly selfish.

Right in front of me is a life dangling by the meagre tethers of a rope, and I fail to act on it.

To help it up. Because I am so…

 _Scared._

No veil exists between me and the helm of spinelessness. Always, I see it standing beside me, enveloping me whole as my waking eyes watch.

Fearing for my life.

Only my life. Not Lisa's. Not Jacob's.

Just me.

 ** _"You only ever have to work with what you have. I have done my part. The outside. Now, the rest, I leave it within you to decide. To make a difference."_**

The shadow's ghost has come to haunt me again. It's the same phrase, carried like wisps of a feather and the breeze of a winter's chill; with equal influence.

But never was it more pronounced than it was now.

It was always trying to say something to me. Something important.

Something truthful. And I kept trying to ignore it because I was such a coward. I didn't want to face the music.

To just leave it be, and hope that it remains. No responsibility.

But, now…

Now isn't the time to cower under my shadow like I always do.

I've defied all odds and survived everything life had flung at my head so far, so who's to say I shouldn't go any further?

Deep inside me, I touch Lisa's voice, and feel, for once in my entire life – that I am worth it.

For once in my entire life, I feel the urge to toss away my miserable, complaining, excuse-making mouth off my face, and get on with it.

 _Hiccup, no more waiting in the dark. Take it._

I reach for an ugly, croaky voice which just so happened to live in my throat, and finally scream what I've been struggling to keep hallowed all these years:

 _"Why won't you just LISTEN to her?!"_

The words boom like dynamite and respite, splintering all matter of incongruency left in the room – compelling all eyes to lay on me. And in the aftermath, I immediately follow it up with enquiring restoration.

" _I…"_ I huff in frustration, two claws rubbing my temple. _"I am sorry for shouting, and more so for blowing my cover; but… fyrir Breiðablik, Jacob, forgive me if I think that this is getting out of hand."_

I point my dagger-tipped claw at Lisa, to which wide-eyed apertures scramble to. _"Don't you see? Your daughter is dying – right in front of you. Writhing and squirming on your mattress like a maggot-infested corpse, and you're not willing to give it your all and help her. So… so what if this 'Academy' rejects you? So what if a mob arises? If they do, then so be it. At least you know you tried – and you gave it your best shot. At least you have exhausted your options. At least you have done everything in your power to save_ her _."_

Tension hung in the air for a few suspended moments, neither of them stout enough to chime in. So, in their place, I do. _"Jacob, just… just try."_

And just like that, awkward silence circling the air and all, my tangent ended. Well, _kind of_.

I didn't exactly end it on a high note – the final line being cited just above a whisper – but I hope I got the point across.

Employing my four paws to step back a few, I distance myself from Jacob to give Jacob some breathing room, all the while shocked at my sudden outburst. It was as if all of the pent-up emotions and feelings of neglect had churned and broiled itself into blood red magma, surfacing and climbing a volcano, just waiting to gush.

And I realise gradually, now that I have the silence to look back on it – I've been blistering as of late. From my treatment of Lisa to my _willingness_ to do the right thing…

I almost don't recognise myself anymore. The real Hiccup wouldn't do this. He would have just ignored any sort of courage – lied with all four of his legs spread on the sand until Death came to claim him.

No, no, this is something else. Something new.

And back then, anything novel dawning on the horizon and I would've hated it its gleaming glow.

Now? I… tolerate it enough. Here's hoping I can tolerate further.

I just hope they could as well.

Uncomfortably, I shift into a two-legged stance, half-standing and half-sitting on the floor. My front paws fold into each other.

A few moments pass, and all I see is Jacob flipping and tossing his mind like scrambled chicken eggs, contemplating on whether it'd be right to risk it for both of their sakes.

He soon settles on the window pane, looking further at what was a part of him.

The forest. The hunt.

A life of barely scraping by all in due part for the thrill of it. The adrenalin coursing within, chasing after his game. Or his game chasing after him.

The morning sunrises and evening sunsets. The birds singing. The breeze rattling against the leaves. The sanctuary, barely hidden by the flaps of dead life. The freshness of the morning dew and the smell of the flora ever so abundant around him.

To let all those flashes of utopia, go…

For her.

Decided, his eyes snap open to their full length; a determined expression soon spread on his face, and he turns to face me.

He looks disappointed at himself for even _considering_ otherwise.

And before I could ask him something crucial, something serious, I was suddenly thrown off this plane of existence altogether.

Jacob, desperate and feverish Jacob, _laughs_.

He thwacks his hands in hysteria, the silhouette of the candle slapping against the wooden walls.

 _"Good God. First, a bat the size of a cave bear decides to pass out at my house, and now that same bat is instructing me on how to be a good person?"_ He wipes a traitorous tear from his cheek. _"I'd never have thought that I'd stoop so low. If I didn't know any better I'd have mistaken you for the agent for the Lord. But, truly… I've never heard any words truer than what you've said. You're right. I am a coward, plain and simple, and I am sorry for causing you so much frustration. I was just so…_ worried. _About the future and its implications… that I never stopped to think about what is happening around me, right now."_

Jacob closes in on Lisa and leans in for a skin-tight embrace. Her eyes show that she is as confused as I am. _"And the now is_ you _. I… I am so, so sorry Lisa. I shouldn't have let things grow so hoarse."_

 _"But now…"_ He reels back from the hug, two stretched hands still placed on Lisa's shoulder. _"Now, I know what to do. And I am going to do it right."_

As sudden as he said his piece – much less giving Lisa and I time to process what he said beforehand – he stormed out of the room, the dust he kicked dispersing into the air.

Our eyelids flutter, mystified.

Soon, an awful lot of ruckus arose from the room next to Lisa's, my sensitive ears hurting a bit. When the bombardment of ear-bleach finally seized, I see Jacob coming into the bedroom again, arms stuffed with piles upon piles of scrolls.

It's a wonder how he managed to move them at all.

He shoots a face of courage square in the chest. _"I am going to the college for a bit and… see what the Academy has to say. The process should take no less than a day – two-thirds of it at most. Until then, look after my daughter for me. Please? Your size is something to be reckoned with, and I doubt thieves would cause much distress at the sight of you."_

My one eyebrow hoists, to which he expresses a face of immediate regret.

He holds his breath. _"No offence, of course."_

And I just couldn't keep the smartass in me. So, I erect a grin, saying mockingly, _"None taken."_

I could almost hear Jacob snarl at that. A good-natured snarl.

At that, after he was absolutely sure that everything under control, that he left no stone unturned – he hunches over the threat of death, and leaves. With books and all.

I watch him be off, burrowing his way out of this rut and into bright, delicious air.

A sense of accomplishment barrages my senses. I've done something. Something good.

I smile.

Thenceforth, a plea taps me on the back, compelling me to break eye contact with the door. Lisa. _"He… took that surprisingly well. But y-you better go after him."_

My head tilts questionably. _"Why?"_

 _"Well…"_ she starts. _"Knowing Dad, h-he'd probably p-pass out from an overload of… of… uh… stress! Yes, stress; and he has done so before."_

I baulk, not believing for a second. _"Really?"_

 _"…"_

 _"…"_

 _"…no. But please, just… take care of him. A bear might maul him or… something."_

I turn back from staring at the door and worryingly face her. _"What about you?"_

 _"I-I will be fine. Dad never said it outright, but nobody would dare l-lay a finger on the poor. Bad taboo around these parts. He's just being paranoid as always. Now, go! And don't you dare let him c-come back with anything_ less _than f-four limbs, or so help me..."_

I reel from where I stand, shocked at her audacity. _"Jeez, lady. Fine. But you don't exactly look like you're in much of a position to talk here."_

 _"Oh, I will find a way_. _I will._ " She almost spat that last word out.

I snort. Shaking my head, I turn around, rolling my eyes. _"Anything for you, princess."_

She smiles, a mischievous undertone carving its way into her throat. _"Right back at you, overgrown lizard."_

I hold back a laugh but I am fairly confident my pupils told otherwise. _"I'm leaving."_

 _"Good for you."_

And like a bird seizing the meaning of flight, I take off before she could even think to blink.

* * *

 ** _Went for vacation and now school's starting._**

 ** _Yay..._**

 ** _Anyway, here's my long overdue chapter. Cheers._**


	38. A Summary from the Grave

**As predicted, my timer's up and I simply can't find the motivation to continue this fic. Writer's block, lack of time in my fucked-up college life. Factors compounded and I had to stop. I know - no excuses. My sincerest apologies for those who wanted a real conclusion. Seeing as I have two fics which I find more interesting to develop, I had to abandon this one. What really sucks is that I have every single plot point ready to go in the fic - which I have listed in a nutshell in the following. I wanna step away from the stereotype of abandoning stories without a conclusion and actually post a plot outline... so, without further ado, this is my crack at it.**

 **Hope you enjoy...**

* * *

Phase 1: Hiccup transforms unwillingly and runs away.

Phase 2: This phase is mainly to show that Hiccup can still be a functioning, helpful contributor to the betterment of society (i.e. Jacob convincing publishers to publish his story, thus making money. You would have learnt that Lisa is a bit of a hot-head when you get to know her) Naturally, this gave him the confidence to bring him one step closer to becoming the Black Angel. He cures Lisa of her illness and Jacob actually gets a job as a court jester. Of sorts. He never jests, merely tells tales he wrote himself. Funny, how the tale he was working on was titled 'The Black Angel'.

Phase 3: Phase 3 shows that people are ultimately redeemable, much like himself and by extension Stoick. This plot revolves around a prince of the nearby kingdom being ambushed by bandits while journeying across the paths where Hiccup had intended to pass. Hiccup saved him with the power of his appearance, but the Prince has to gall to stand upright to a creature many nobles would consider demons. It matters not to him, apparently, if one were to consult with such a beast. This prince offers to help him in the form of shekels if Hiccup takes him back to his castle. Though reluctant, Hiccup agrees. Throughout their return, Hiccup and the prince exchange banter back and forth as if they were _born_ for it. They then get side-tracked with a family missing a boy. They recognise the prince and begs them of their help. Naturally, he objects the notion of helping "denizens", but Hiccup eventually talks him into (coerce, rather) helping them.

The missing boy is found after several close encounters with the beasts of the forest. This prince was then rendered thoroughly humbled by his acts of kindness, much like how one would influence a friend through companionship (Hiccup also learns how to fly).

As they get closer, the prince ends up venting about how he has to live up to his dad by being a presumptuous prick, etc. Soon, the Prince actually changes from Hiccup's influence on the path to diverge from his father's shadow.

They reach his kingdom after a fortnight and part ways in the end. After a brief confrontation with the prince's father - with the former proclaiming he wouldn't be like the latter - the twist, however, was that the King was actually advised bis court to take this course of action so that his son may bear witness to know how a true king acts.

Phase 4: Showing Hiccup the perks of becoming a dragon. A village runt he encounters on his escape away from Berk is harassed by the village gang. His dog was intentionally targeted - with the bullies breaking its neck just to spite him. Feeling pity, Hiccup intervenes and tries to cheer him up as he cautiously makes first contact with another human being. Surprisingly, he would not be as receptive to his appearance as he once thought. Instead, he merely acknowledges his existence with a huff - without a care in the world. The parallels between him and the boy are striking - almost identical. The dragon offers the boy a joy-flight in the end. If Hiccup could make one person this happy through his actions, then perhaps...

Phase 5: Hiccup turns back to help Berk as he convinces himself that it is the right thing to do, though he isn't doing it out of love for his family.

Phase 6: He bumps into with Windwalker - a titular dragon featured in the HTTYD books. This catches Hiccup off-guard - he hadn't expected any dragons other than himself being intelligent, much less have the emotional complexity to grieve for their parents. Yes... unlike Hiccup, this dragon has qualms with his family being in tatters. Seeing himself within this dragon, he wasn't just going to stand by. Through some means of persuasion, Windwalker's father and mother reconcile with one another once they the rupture they were leaving on their only son. This incident makes Hiccup realise the importance of family. Soon as he left, a fire is reignited within him - he would go to Berk and save them from these blighted dragon raids.

Phase 7: REUNIONS! As the Prince's capital just so happened to be in the way, Hiccup decides to spend some time there to recuperate - gather his bearings. However, his self-imposed break time doesn't extend to him not finding his old friend, now... He catches the prince in the crowd - all of a sudden wearing modest clothing instead of the usually extravagant silk top and bottom. Hiccup follows him to his house - him entering through the window...

Whoops!

Even after all his experience in his new form, he still couldn't lock down scent for some reason. He was glad he hadn't found it though, for what he found standing in that top-level hallway was more than worth it. It was Lisa! She couldn't comprehend what she was seeing... it was really him...

After some warm greetings were exchanged, the prince, it seemed, also had heard her shriek upstairs when she first saw Hiccup. Having also discovered the dragon's presence... he acted just as shocked as Lisa did. Apparently, neither of them had told each other about their raunch adventures with Hiccup - it was way too crazy for it to ever be believable. During his stay at the prince's courthouse, he also learns Lisa and the prince were in talks of possible marriage, to which the latter two were met with wonderous encouragement. Lisa's father must have really got around if he had the honour of bestowing his work in the graces of a king.

When Hiccup proclaims he had to leave to settle the problem back in the Archipelago (which he had only told about to the prince for obvious reasons), the prince volunteers to accompany him. He was in much due of a holiday just as his father was - every year...

 _Just like old times..._

Of course, Lisa also came along. Let this be their date, she had suggested. The prince was ecstatic.

Phase 8: Having equipped their weaponry and essentials, the trio set off north as promised. The first isle they see after three days' worth of travel was in a mess... but the formation of the land looked all too familiar to Hiccup to be a consequence. By the gods! It's the isle of the Bog-Burglars! Its land was pilfered, its buildings ravaged by the savage beasts that were the dragon army...

Dragon attacks were getting more and more violent. To travel by ship was a death wish nowadays, apparently.

He had to check on his life-long companion... to see whether Camicazi was unharmed in the destruction wrought by the scaled menace. The dragon sets off after dropping Lisa and the prince off in a safe locale. Hiccup slips into her bedroom, hoping his silent form goes unnoticed. The sharp end of a knife soon greets his throat. What shocked Hiccup the most wasn't the fact that any human being possessed the capacity to hear such silent movement, but the fact that she looked as estranged as death.

Hiccup explains his predicament, transformation and all... but Camicazi doesn't buy it. After some convincing, she finally believes him - no one had bothered to talk to Hiccup about his favourites except for her... only to break down in front of him not long after. She still is grieving over the fact that she couldn't save the boy from supposedly drowning. She also says that if nothing was done soon, her whole tribe would be done for. Naturally, Hiccup sets out to investigate. Maybe it was the bows he received from the other dragons, or perhaps the fact that his scales grew blue. Either way, it gave Hiccup the hint: that demon-like figure moulded him to be, in her image, the apex predator of the animal kingdom... the Alpha.

He learns soon enough from his uncomfortably-willing subjects that they had previously been under the spell of another Alpha. But of course, he ventures off again. Before he does, he offers Cami safe haven in a locale he found where no dragon would go poking their noses around. She accepts. It was about time she set off on an adventure again.

Phase 9: His antics on the Bog-Buglar's territory do not go unnoticed. Being that a Night Fury flying in broad daylight was not relatively difficult to spot, he was soon found by a pack of dragons, beckoning him to follow. Hiccup couldn't skip the offer - it was too good to pass up. Now he would finally meet the head honcho that had caused all this misery on the Archipelago, and perhaps the reason why he or she had done it.

Hiccup meets with the Red Death after some flying through the thickest of fogs. In her den, she explains to him when asked that humans were rapidly expanding. Dragons used to span across the whole world... now they were being cornered by their superior technology and whatnot. The Archipelago was their last stand, he sees - this is an act not out of malice, but out of misguided desperation. If she doesn't coax the Vikings into leaving the Archipelago, their technology and natural human ignorance and greed would render their species crumpled. All of these reasonings were explained in the kindest ways possible, and it actually came to light that she treats all of her subjects well - better than the prince even.

However, the Night Fury disagrees... Hiccup explains that they could co-exist if they were just given enough time! In retort, the Red Death presents Hiccup with hard evidence of what has happened to the dragon populace of ages past... when they first convened with humans.

Following a narrow chase, Hiccup leaves the lair of the dragons... determined more than ever to stop Queen's ways.

Now he finally makes his move to Berk, first stopping by to pick up his newly formed convene of sorts. To his surprise, he finds Cami actually having a go at flying on one of the Nadders. The Nadder, too, came along... out of service to himself or her newly bonded relationship with Cami, he had no clue.

Final phase: They reach Berk. The village, to put it lightly, was a sand castle waiting to be kicked over.

Before he makes any moves concerning You-Know-Who, he first helps certain trustworthy individuals in secret such as Gobber to build up his reputation as a good dragon should any confrontation comes to blows. He also reveals his identity to everyone he decided to meet. OG Hiccup's mannerisms were so identifiable with the dragon's they believed him right away.

Through some spying, Hiccup learns that they were actually making a move to the Queen's lair. To stop this madness. It was obvious to him as it was to anyone with half a brain cell that this was suicide. A final hoorah before the descent to Hel.

Hiccup urges to reconsider this to those he helped, though there isn't much they can do about it. His father was a stubborn man.

The dragon decides to hold a risky meeting with Stoick, telling his father this dragon was indeed his son. For obvious reasons, Stoick outright refuses and vows to slay Hiccup. After some calming down by Gobber and Hiccup's supporters, the burly beast goes on a tantrum about how it was his fault that Hiccup got killed. How his only family was dead thanks to _him_.

Hiccup eventually offers to take the Vikings there - to the dragons' lair... after he explains his brief confrontation with the Queen, that is. Stoick accepts the offer, though on the condition he was to be watched over at all times.

What happens next is more or less what happens in the movie afterwards, though with the exception of the Queen realising her foolish ways after she was outsmarted and slain by the Black Angel. She begs him in the aftermath of the battle, emanating a single tear, that Hiccup would continue to work to save all dragon-kind.

Hiccup vows to keep this Queen's one last wish: to ensure his species' survival...

 **THE END**


End file.
